


skinny dipping

by OedipusOctopus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, M/M, Minor/Background Relationships - Freeform, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, a few OCs but they're super background and only serve to flesh out the world, and then it's mostly an aged up/college AU, background bokuaka - Freeform, background daisuga, background kagehina - Freeform, soul marks appear on your sixteenth birthday, soul marks are a clue as to how or when you'll meet your soulmate, starts off while they're in high school but ~timeskip~, the more timeskip we get in canon the further this diverges lmao, timeline? what timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24260098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OedipusOctopus/pseuds/OedipusOctopus
Summary: Summer.Of fucking course.The word 'summer' scrawled in a deep maroon sits at the tip of his collarbone, not quite at his shoulder but easily covered by the collar of any t-shirt he owns.He doesn’t know what he expected—not that he’d expected anything, really. While his first year classmates constantly clamor about their soul mark, what they want it to look like, who they hope they’re bonded with for eternity,I can’t wait until I’m sixteen so I can finally find out,Tsukishima hadn’t given it much thought.Frankly, he didn’t care if he ended up with one or not.But of course, of fucking course, this is the soul mark he ended up with.He doesn’t have to guess the meaning, doesn’t have to wonder when he’ll run into someone with a matching mark.He’s already met them.Already met him.
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei
Comments: 150
Kudos: 594
Collections: HQ Feels (Mostly M or E)





	1. keep dragging my bones

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first work in the hq fandom, so i hope i do it justice! i haven't seen many soulmate aus for krtsk specifically, so i thought i'd add a lil somethin somethin~
> 
> also, i'm pretty sure i got the ages/birthdays right? but if i didn't, let's just call it canon divergence and hope for the best lmao
> 
> title and all chapter titles from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vqx3f18MuFc).

“Kuroo?” Daichi raises an eyebrow, cocks his head. Tsukishima sees the crow-like nature of it. “Nekoma’s captain Kuroo?” 

Tsukishima nods curtly. His hands itch to grasp the hem of his shirt, but he resits. 

Daichi’s eyes squint and Tsukishima swears he can see the beginnings of crows feet forming in the corners, tiny crinkles far too deep for someone of Daichi’s age. “Why do you need his phone number?”

“Tch.” Tsukishima clicks his tongue and turns on his heel to walk away, but he’s met by the face of one Sugawara far too close for comfort. 

The sickly sweet smile painted on Suga’s face is supposed to be placating, Tsukishima is sure, but right now all it does is make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “Kuroo-san? Does this have something to do with that  _ private training _ he gave you at the summer training camp?” The way he emphasizes ‘private’ makes the little mark forever seared into Tsukishima’s collarbone tingle. 

He hates it. 

“Forget it,” Tuskishima spits. He brushes past Sugawara, their shoulders bumping with more force than necessary and for a second Tsukishima feels a little bad about disrespecting his senpai like that — especially someone as genuine as Suga. But he’s had a hell of a day and wants nothing more than to change out of his sweaty practice clothes and ignore Tadashi’s never ending chatter on the walk home. 

He hears Daichi growl out his name, no doubt readying for a lecture on how ‘that’s no way to treat your vice captain,’ but Suga’s soft voice shushes him. His voice is so quiet that Tsukishima struggles to decipher his words on the short trek to the locker room, but he does his best to appear nonchalant. 

“It’s my fault. I provoked him when he’s obviously in a mood.”

Mood doesn’t begin to describe it. 

~~~~~~~

He wakes up to the sound of his phone buzzing once, twice, three times in a row. Groaning, he rolls onto his side to check who could possibly be texting him — triple texting, no less — when the sun has just started to creep above the horizon. 

Tadashi, of course. 

Sighing, Tsukishima clicks on the notification icon to open their conversation. Besides the three new messages, two from the night before remain unread. 

_ [00:01] >> Happy birthday! _ _  
_ _ [00:03] >> I know you’re asleep because you’re ~responsible~ but if you happened to have stayed up to watch your mark appear… ::eyes:: _

_ [05:15] >> Good morning Tsukki! ::sun:: _ _  
_ _ [05:15] >> Happy birthday Tsukki!!! _ _  
_ _ [05:15] >> Mark? _

He sits up and runs a hand through his hair, reaching blindly for his glasses folded neatly atop his nightstand. He types out a message once he can see again. 

_ [05:16] << gm _ _  
_ _ [05:16] << how do you survive on 5 hours of sleep _

Stretching his arms above his head, he stands and glances at the mirror leaning against the wall. He tosses his phone on his bed, the thing already vibrating with more messages from Tadashi. The mirror taunts him as he walks up to it.

There’s nothing visible on his arms, nothing on his legs that peek out from his ragged sleep shorts. He lets out a breath of relief. Whatever this damned soulmark is, at least it’ll easily be hidden by his regular clothing. 

And his volleyball gear — a blessing beyond his wildest dreams. 

This also means it’ll be harder for his soulmate to find him. No potential coffee shop meet cute, no bumping into a stranger at a konbini who outwardly bares their proof of love, no embarrassing outing in the middle of class. 

Another blessing. 

But now, staring at the reflection of himself in the mirror, Tsukishima isn’t sure he wants to know where or what it is. 

That heavy feeling like dropping a bowling ball fills his belly, just like it had that day in the summer. 

_ Summer. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The way ‘private’ sounded rolling off of Suga’s tongue, high and teasing, rings in Tsukishima’s ears as he pulls open his bag with too much force. Unthinkingly, he tugs his shirt off over his head and begins to untangle the spare he’d shoved into his bag this morning. 

“Woah!” Hinata’s absurdly loud voice stalls Tsukishima’s distracted motions. “Tsukki’s got his mark! Look, Bakageyama!”

Shit, he really didn’t think this through. 

Before he can recover (i.e. put on his shirt), Kageyama is pushing his way past Hinata to stare openly at Tsukishima’s chest. He lifts a finger to his chin as his eyes squint in concentration. He hums contemplatively. “Summer? That’s… vague.”

Tsukishima brushes off any embarrassment threatening to crawl up his spine and nearly rips a new arm hole in his shirt in his haste to pull it over his body. “It’s better than Hinata’s. His could be anybody at Karasuno, past, present, or future.”

“Hey!” Hinata shouts defensively, his hand reflexively covering the word  _ fly _ scrawled across his kneecap. “They’ll show up someday! Yours is way worse. You’ve already lived through fifteen summers! It could be anybody you met during them — ”

“Sixteen summers, actually,” Tsukishima corrects, smirking. 

Kageyama lifts his fingers and begins counting them down. Hinata looks in his direction, letting the silence stretch on for a moment. When Kageyama nods solemnly, Hinata lifts his hands to his head in exasperation. “Fine, sixteen! Whatever, I’m still right! You see so many people during the summer. Plus, that’s my little sister’s name, so if it’s her I’m gonna punch you.”

Tsukishima delivers his best glare in the shorty’s direction as he replaces his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “I highly doubt my soulmate is your six year old sister.”

_ Because it’s a 6’2” guy whose only obvious goal is to annoy me to death, _ goes unsaid.

In his periphery, Tsukishima sees Tadashi staring at their little gathering from where he changes into his own regular, non sweat-stained clothes. Tsukishima doesn’t have to face him fully to feel the grin stretched across his stupid, freckled face. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

When Tsukishima finally manages to crawl into his futon, freshly showered and removed from the day’s activities, he’s surprised to find Tadashi’s too-wide eyes focused on him. They’re barely visible, merely more than glowing whites against stark irises, with what little moonlight seeps through the high windows in the night’s makeshift sleeping quarters for the Karasuno volleyball team 

“What do you want,” Tuskishima whispers harshly, not a question. Beside him, Hinata lets out a staccato snore and rolls over. 

Tadashi is still looking at Tsukishima, but waits until Hinata stills once more to speak. “What happened?”

“Extra practice.” He lays back, breaking eye contact and hoping the short answer is enough for Tadashi to let it go, at least for now. 

He should know better, all things considered. 

“I saw those Fukurodani guys head back over an hour ago.” Tadashi’s voice is barely audible, Tsukishima knows, but the accusation might as well be at 100 decibels. 

He tugs his thin blanket up to his chin even though the chugging of the air conditioning unit tucked into the window is no match for the muggy heat of a Tokyo summer. “So I took a long shower.”

A hand grabs his ankle and tugs. “I didn’t see that Nekoma guy with them.”

Tsukishima yanks his leg from Tadashi’s grasp. “So? I don’t keep track of other people. Now shut up and go to sleep.”

“C’mon, you said he was hot, right? So your eyes are definitely on him!” Tadashi’s hand reaches under the blanket and wraps around Tsukishima’s ankle. 

Tsukishima shoots up in his futon to glare down at Tadashi. His friend’s hair is mussed from the pillow, but his eyes seem alert like he was never actually asleep. “Shut up, Tadashi. The whole team can hear you.”

“Ugh, fine.” Tadashi lets go of Tsukishima’s leg with an exaggerated sigh. 

Naively thinking this whole mess is over — for now, anyway; surely Tadashi will bring it up again later — Tsukishima settles in his futon and shuts his eyes, willing away the tingling sensation of phantom touches along his arms. Just as he enters the blissfully dark limbo between consciousness and sleep, his phone vibrates from its hiding place under his pillow. Once, twice, three times, four. 

It stops buzzing for a moment, long enough for him to almost push his brain back into a half-sleep state, when it buzzes again. Five times. 

Hinata groans from his spot next to Tsukishima. “Tsukki, ya gotta answer your phone,” he slurs sleepily. 

He wants to scold Hinata for using that god forsaken nickname, but before he can, the shorty is back to snoring obnoxiously. Tsukishima reaches under his pillow and pulls out his phone, wincing at the brightness of the screen as he unlocks it. The default messenger app happily informs him  _ 9 new messages from Tadashi. _ It would be so easy to stick his leg out and kick Tadashi’s foot across from his own, but the last thing he wants is for anyone else to wake up because his best friend is too nosy for his own good. 

_ [23:45] >> Tsukki _ _  
_ _ [23:45] >> Tsukkiiiii _ _  
_ _ [23:45] >> Tsukki answer me _ _  
_ _ [23:46] >> Something happened with that Nekoma guy didn’t it? _ _  
_ _ [23:47] >> Tsukki _ _  
_ _ [23:47] >> Tsukki  _ _  
_ _ [23:47] >> Tsukki _ _  
_ _ [23:48] >> I saw you making eyes at him  _ _  
_ _ [23:48] >> Tsukki did you fuck Nekoma’s captain _

Tsukishima swallows his own spit and somehow manages to keep the choking feeling in his throat at bay. 

_ [23:50] << it’s none of your business _ _  
_ _ [23:50] << now go to sleep, we have to wake up early _

Before he can even hit the lock button, his phone is vibrating in his palm. 

_ [23:50] >> !!!! _ _  
_ _ [23:51] >> So there is ~business~ _

Tsukishima curses his sleep-addled brain, heavy with the events of the day and jumbled with the whirlwind of emotions he’d visited that evening, for saying anything remotely suspicious. It really isn’t fair how easily Tadashi picks up on any slip-up Tsukishima makes. 

_ [23:53] << if i say i’ll tell you tomorrow will you go to sleep _

_ [23:54] >> You have to promise _

_ [23:54] << i promise _

_ [23:55] >> No, you have to say it all together. _ _  
_ _ [23:56] >> Say, “Tadashi, I promise to give you all the juicy details about my tryst with the hot Nekoma captain tomorrow morning before our first game.” _

_ [23:57] << don’t ever say the word tryst again _

Tsukishima powers his phone off and shoves it under his pillow. 

~~~~~~~~~~

_ Summer. _

Of fucking course. 

The word  _ summer _ scrawled in a deep maroon sits at the tip of his collarbone, not quite at his shoulder but easily covered by the collar of any t-shirt he owns. 

He doesn’t know what he expected — not that he’d expected anything, really. While his first year classmates constantly clamor about their soul mark, what they want it to look like, who they hope they’re bonded with for eternity,  _ I can’t wait until I’m sixteen so I can finally find out _ , Tsukishima hadn’t given it much thought. 

Frankly, he didn’t care if he ended up with one or not. 

But of course, of fucking course, this is the soul mark he ended up with. 

He doesn’t have to guess the meaning, doesn’t have to wonder when he’ll run into someone with a matching mark. 

He’s already met them. 

Already met him. 

_ “I haven’t met them yet, if you’re wondering.” _

That damn smirk that followed burns the back of his eyeballs as he stares at himself in the mirror. 

“Kei?”

Tsukishima turns to face the doorway, hoping his facial features don’t betray the constricting feeling in his chest. 

His mother gasps as her eyes trail down his face and neck to land on the newly imprinted mark. “Oh, Kei, it’s lovely.” She smiles and leans against the door frame. “Happy birthday, honey. Breakfast is ready for you downstairs.”

Swallowing the lump quickly forming in his throat, Tsukishima says, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

She gives him one last soft smile and thankfully shuts the door behind her as she walks away. 

Tsukishima grabs his phone from the bed and snaps a quick picture to send to Tadashi. He doesn’t write an accompanying message. By the time he’s changed into his uniform, there’s a response. 

_ [5:30] >> Oh shit. _

Oh, shit indeed.

~~~~~~~~~~~

He doesn’t know how he ended up here, not really. 

Physically, yeah, he knows he walked from the gym into the practice building and then opened the door to this dingy supply closet. 

But as to how Kuroo’s lips found his, how Kuroo’s callused hands ended up tangled in his sweaty hair, how Kuroo’s leg ended up between his thighs, well. 

He vaguely remembers reading about how exercise releases endorphins that can cause people to become, uh, in the mood, but it has never happened to him, not even with the ridiculous amount of workouts he’s been through lately with the killer Krasuno practice schedule. 

Kuroo’s tongue swipes against the seam of Tsukishima’s lips and derails his whole train of thought. The feeling is so strange the only thing he can do in response is gasp. Kuroo seems to take this as an invitation because the next thing Tsukishima registers is the foreign feeling of another person’s tongue sliding against his. 

It should be gross — really, really gross since he learned in biology that the human mouth is basically a big wet petri dish — but Tsukishima feels the blood leave his brain and flood south at the slick sensation. 

The sound that spills from Kuroo’s mouth and into Tsukishima’s is positively the most sinful thing Tsukishima has ever heard. 

Hands. His hands. What does he do with his hands? Kuroo’s are still gripping onto the short strands of Tsukishima’s hair. Is this a clue? Does Kuroo want him to do the same thing? But there are too many elbows too close together if he does that. Should he rest his hands on Kuroo’s waist? Would that make Kuroo feel, like, emasculated? 

“I can hear you overthinking this.” Kuroo’s voice is a husky whisper as he speaks against Tsukishima’s lips.

It’s really hot in this closet. 

Kuroo pulls away slightly, but is still close enough that his breath ghosts over Tsukishima’s cheeks. “If you wanna stop, just say the word.”

Tsukishima grips Kuroo’s hips in his fingers, squeezing firmly. “I wouldn’t be here unless I wanted to ‘have some fun,’ as you put it.”

The chuckle that bubbles up Kuroo’s throat is gruff, deep, and Tsukishima sort of feels like he wants to drown in it. Kuroo grins and plants another solid kiss, no tongue, to Tsukishima’s mouth. “Then let’s continue, shall we?” The way the corners of his lips stretch impossibly wider is absolutely devilish. 

A hand slides up Tsukishima’s shirt as Kuroo’s lips find a sensitive spot at the junction between his ear and neck. Kuroo kisses down the column of his neck, letting his teeth graze Tsukishima’s sensitive skin every so often. He sucks when he reaches the hollow of Tsukishima’s throat. 

“Don’t leave a mark, idiot,” Tsukishima manages to growl between pleasured gasps. 

Kuroo chuckles against his clavicle, kisses the reddening skin in apology. “Your wish is my command, Tsukki-sama.”

Tsukishima groans lowly and pushes his hips against Kuroo’s, relishing in momentary friction. “Take off your shirt.”

With a parting nip at Tsukishima’s earlobe, Kuroo leans away slightly and grabs the back of his shirt, lifting the garment from his body in one motion. Tsukishima’s eyes don’t have the chance to take in the hard expanse of skin in front of him, because all he can fixate on is the word etched into the skin atop Kuroo’s collarbone. 

“Summer?” Tsukishima murmurs, voice too soft for the situation. The kanji is delicately written in a deep maroon, like the shadow of the Nekoma uniform. 

Kuroo shrugs. There’s a glint of something dangerous in his eyes as he stares into Tsukishima’s. “I haven’t met them yet, if you’re wondering.”

“Tch,” Tsukishima scoffs. “Like I care. I’m just here for some fun, remember?”

This time, Kuroo lets out a laugh, full and too loud for the tiny room surrounding them. “You’re right. Where was I?” His lips take the shape of a sharp smirk once more as he sinks to his knees. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Tsukishima wonders what he must’ve done in a past life to end up where he is right now, on the evening of his sixteenth birthday. 

(He might not be a spectacular human in this life, either, but he’s not, like, a criminal.)

The entire walk home consisted of Tadashi saying the following three things in repetition with little variation each time: 

"Ohmygod, I can't believe  _ Kuroo-san  _ is your soulmate!"

"This is literally the cutest thing ever." 

"You're going to track him down and call him as soon as you can, right?"

To which Tsukishima's responses were, respectively:

An appreciative grunt. (He, too, could not believe that Kuroo, of all people, ended up being his soulmate. Albeit he felt a lot less giddy about it than Tadashi seemed to be.)

"Just wait until Kageyama turns 16. When he and Hinata figure it out, it'll be more entertaining."

"I already tried Daichi. I'll try someone else later." 

Now, staring down at his open textbook littered with neat annotations in the border, Tsukishima finds himself at a loss. It's not that Kuroo seems like a bad guy, but he doesn't exactly seem like a  _ good _ guy, either. He did proposition Tsukishima for a quickie in a maintenance supply closet on perhaps their fourth meeting, ever. 

Tsukishima isn’t so daft as to deny an attraction to Kuroo, either. Their… whatever ( _ not _ a tryst. Never that word) happened in the closet was surely pleasurable--not that he really had anything to compare it to — but that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe this situation is the universe trying to throw Tsukishima a bone: he doesn’t have to meet yet another new person, at least. He’s not great at first impressions. 

(Or second, or third. 

Impressions, in general.)

And Kuroo did have some good advice for blocking, even if he did have to royally piss off Tsukishima for it to really take hold. 

Maybe that’s what’s putting Tsukishima off to the whole thing — Kuroo got to him. Without even knowing him, without so much as properly introducing himself, Kuroo was able to read Tsukishima like an open book. Like it was nothing of consequence, Kuroo set aflame to Tsukishima the desire to give a damn. Kuroo took control of Tsukishima’s emotions so easily, too easily. 

But now Tsukishima is the one with the power to control what happens next. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a bad idea. He knows it is. But every time he thinks about what to do next, how to deal with the stupid mark forever stamped into his skin, he gets a gross tingly feeling in his gut and he’d rather like to be done with it. 

Hinata is in the middle of blabbering about how  _ crazy that quick was, it was like whoosh and bam and whap! _ when Tsukishima reluctantly speaks from his unofficially designated corner of the club room. “Shorty, you talk to Kenma, right?”

“What’s it to you?” Hinata practically spits. 

“Do you talk to anyone else from Nekoma?” Tsukishima asks as he pulls his shirt over his head. It’s just the other first years in the club room with him, their upperclassmen having already left for the day, so he doesn’t care about showing his soulmark. 

Hinata’s too-round eyes narrow in a way that’s probably supposed to be menacing. “Maybe I do.”

Tsukishima sighs. He resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Look, do you have Kuroo-san’s number?” He can feel Tadashi’s eyes bore into his back. 

“No, why would I?” Hinata’s eyebrows knit together and a deep crinkle forms in the middle of his forehead as he continues to squint in Tsukishima’s direction. “Shouldn’t you? You got to practice with him during the summer training camp! So unfair, by the way, why wasn’t I invited? I’m a middle blocker too — ”

“Nevermind.” Of course the idiot doesn’t have Kuroo’s number. This whole situation has Tsukishima all out of sorts. He’s clearly lost his mind. “I just — he and Kenma seem close, so I thought maybe you also talked to Kuroo-san. Forget about it.”

Hinata’s face relaxes a little bit and there’s a glimmer in his eye that Tsukishima can’t place but doesn’t like regardless. “I could ask Kenma, though.”

With more force than is strictly necessary, Tsukishima tosses his bag over his shoulder. “I said forget it.”

~~~~~~~~~

“Hey, Tsukki!”

He bristles at the nickname coming from that voice, but he doesn’t turn to face him. “Don’t call me that, idiot,” he mutters as he walks toward the exit of the gym, ready to be rid of these sweaty clothes. 

Hinata jumps in front of him, orange hair taking up his line of sight. His face is uncharacteristically serious, like he’s about to go on a rant about how he should’ve done x or y different to avoid their most recent loss. “So…” he pauses, twists his fingers together. “I asked Kenma if I could get comb head’s number for you.”

“Why would you do that? I told you to forget it.”

Hinata actually stomps his foot like a literal three year old. “You seemed sad when I said I didn’t have it! So — !”

“Whatever,” Tsukishima breathes out and resumes his path to the exit. 

Before he can brush by Hinata, the shorty starts to walk backwards in front of Tsukishima and keeps blabbering. “So I asked Kenma, but Kenma said he wouldn’t give it to me — ”

“Okay, that’s fine.” Tsukishima picks up his pace. 

Hinata matches it. “But it’s really sad! He said it’s because he doesn’t like you!”

“What?” Tsukishima pauses momentarily. “No, actually, I don’t care. Move.”

“B-but don’t you wanna know why someone doesn’t like you?” 

They’ve reached the door to the outside world now. Hinata just continues on, walking backward on pavement now. Tsukishima kind of hopes he falls flat on his ass. “I don’t care if Kenma doesn’t like me.” 

_ He can join the club. _

“But he’s really cool if you get to know him — ”

“Hinata,” Tsukishima says a little louder than he means to. “I. Don’t. Care. Stop talking to me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The match with Shiratorizawa changes everything. 

They’re going to nationals. 

Tsukishima had it, that moment Bokuto said would change the game for him. All it took was a dislocated finger. 

He’d gladly dislocate the other nine if it meant getting to see that look on Ushiwaka’s face again. 

They’re going to nationals. 

And like that, there’s no time to worry about something so frivolous as soulmates.

~~~~~~~~~~~

_ [17:45] << hey so u r close to comb head right???? _

_ [17:46] >> Kuroo? _ _  
_ _ [17:46] >> Yes. _ _  
_ _ [17:46] >> Why? _

_ [17:46] << can i have his # _ _  
_ _ [17:51] << hullo? _

_ [17:52] >> Why? _

_ [17:53] << its not rly for me _ _  
_ _ [17:53] << its for tsukki _

_ [17:59] >> The tall blonde with glasses? _

_ [18:00] << ya _ _  
_ _ [18:00] << he wouldnt tell me y tho _

_ [18:35] >> Sorry, had dinner. _ _  
_ _ [18:35] >> No. _

_ [18:36] << y not _

_ [18:44] >> I don’t like Tsukishima. _

_ [18:44] << o _ _  
_ _ [18:45] << bc hes a dick? _

_ [18:45] >> No. _ _  
_ _ [18:46] >> Everyone is a dick sometimes. _ _  
_ _ [18:46] >> He upset Kuroo. _

_ [18:46] << wat??? _ _  
_ _ [18:47] << wen??? _

_ [18:50] >> The first night of training camp. _ _  
_ _ [18:52] >> Kuroo tried to help him. He said something that made Kuroo mope the rest of the night.  _

_ [18:52] << o _ _  
_ _ [18:55] << comb head seems too cool to let a loser like tsukki make him sad _

_ [18:55] >> He’s actually very sensitive _

_ [18:56] << o _ _  
_ _ [18:57] << maybe tsukki wants to apologize? _

_ [19:05] >> I won’t help him. _

_ [19:05] << well ok _ _  
_ _ [19:06] << wanna play smash online? _

_ [19:06] >> Sure. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~

That they’re going to play Nekoma in the nationals isn’t a surprise to Tsukishima. 

No, he’s been anticipating it. 

So when Tadashi pulls him aside and whispers, “Are you going to talk to him?” with far too much excitement laced in his hushed voice, Tsukishima simply scoffs and says, “Now’s not the time.”

The way Tadashi looks up at him, eyes wide and quivering with emotions Tsukishima can’t understand, makes that pulling sensation building inside him triple in magnitude. 

But he stands by his words. Now  _ isn’t _ the time, not when he’s finally having fun, sometimes. 

There will be time later. 

~~~~~~~~~~

_ “Thanks to you, once in a blue moon, it’s fun.” _

It would be easy enough to waltz over, rub their victory in his face, and casually throw in a “Oh, by the way, I’m your soulmate.” 

He almost does,  _ almost,  _ but that Kenma is glaring at him and he’s sure it has nothing to do with Karasuno’s win. Tsukishima isn’t the type to be intimidated, let alone to be deterred by someone nearly a foot shorter than him and probably half as strong, but he takes the look for what it is. 

A warning. 

_ Don’t do this, not now. Now’s not the time. _

~~~~~~~~~~

The third years graduate. 

It’s no surprise Ennoshita is decided to be the next captain. 

Everyone around him is emotional as they say their final goodbyes to Suga, Daichi, and Asahi — _ It’s not our last goodbye! _ they say, like they’ll actually come back to visit. Tsukishima knows better.

It’s weird, knowing there will be some first year punks in this very gym in a few weeks and that he’ll be their senpai. 

“Ready to have some unsuspecting first years have to look up at you, physically and metaphorically?” Tadashi jabs an elbow into his side, laughing through the crocodile tears threatening to spill over his lash line. 

“Tch.” Tsukishima nods at Daichi when the — now former — captain looks quizzically in his direction. “I don’t care.”

~~~~~~~~~~

His second year comes and goes. 

Volleyball is fun now, sometimes. Every time someone (read: Hinata) points out that he’s smiling after a particularly brutal block and  _ it looks really weird on your stupid face please stop _ that heavy feeling drops into his stomach like a block of lead and the mark on his collarbone feels like it’s trying to crawl off his skin. 

_ “Truly, thanks to you…” _

~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s not fair that you know and Kuroo doesn’t!”

Tsukishima breathes heavily through his nose but doesn’t say anything. The pencil in his fingers is threatening to snap under the pressure of his grip. If Tadashi notices the slight tremble in his knuckles, he doesn’t point it out. 

“It’s about more than just you, you know!”

“Shut up, Tadashi!” Tsukishima drops his pencil. He meets his best friend’s gaze to find the normally jovial face twisted up in anger, worse than Tsukishima has seen in years. 

“I won’t, Kei! This is important and you know it. You’re being a stubborn ass for no reason!” Tadashi yells loud enough for his voice to echo off the bare walls of Tsukishima’s bedroom. 

Tsukishima pushes himself up from the chair at his desk, voice raising to match Tadashi’s volume, and he’s glad his parents are out for a date night. “You don’t understand! You can’t!” He regrets the words as they spill from his mouth, but he can’t change them. “It’s not my fault you don’t have a mark, so stop pushing your stupid romantic fantasies onto me!” 

As he watches the anger on Tadashi’s face disappear only to be replaced by complete and utter blankness, a cold feeling settles into the pit of Tsukishima’s gut. It’s too far, it’s not what he meant to say, he means it but he doesn’t mean it like that, Tadashi is just looking out for him he knows, but the words  _ I’m sorry _ are stuck in his throat, like his brain has put a cold vice around his vocal cords because it refuses to admit that he’s wrong, this whole conversation is wrong, this argument is wrong, everything about the way Tadashi is looking at him is  _ wrong. _

Tsukishima watches in abject horror as Tadashi slams his own textbook shut and shoves his things into his backpack. He stands, face still unreadable. He doesn’t even turn to look at Tsukishima as he reaches for the door handle. His voice is so quiet Tsukishima has to strain to hear it. “If that’s the way you truly feel, I’m sorry to be such a burden.”

Tsukishima doesn’t move to stop him when he opens the door and walks out. The front door doesn’t slam, just clicks shut softly. The sound cuts through the silence of Tsukishima’s room. 

That spot on his clavicle burns as he throws himself on his bed. 

“Fuck.”

~~~~~~~~~

The acceptance letter comes in a thick, A4 size envelope. He turns it over in his hands. The flap of the closure has obviously been opened before and haphazardly steamed back into place. The paper is slightly wrinkled around the edge. 

It isn’t the first, but it is the most important. 

There’s a buzzing in the back of his mind. 

_ Tadashi is probably opening the same thing at his dining table. _

“Kei?” his mother’s voice calls out from across the living room, smooth and warm like a comforting cup of green tea. “You know what a big envelope means, right?”

Tsukishima looks up from the paper in his hands, addressed from Tokyo University. His mom is smiling at him, so genuine it reaches all the way to the corner of her eyes. “Yeah, mom. I know.” His voice sounds empty as it rattles around his bones. 

Her smile drops a little. “This… is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he says hollowly. He turns to head into his room. 

“Don’t you want to open it?” His mother’s voice calls out, no longer a soft cadence but thick with worry. 

“I know what it says.”

~~

The letter remains unopened (by him, anyway) for two weeks. 

He and Tadashi applied to Tokyo University together, took the bullet train to the exam centre together, shared a too-large bowl of udon over tense silence post-entrance exam, laughed over  _ absolutely not getting into that school, no way! _ together the following day. 

_ “We’ll open the rejection letters together, okay?” _

Tsukishima had agreed, because he knew there was a very slim chance someone from a small country school like Karasuno could make it to the big leagues, no matter how hard he studied. The package has been sitting on the corner of his desk, an annoying reminder that he’s the world’s worst best friend — if he even was that anymore — every time he sits down to study. 

Club has been fine, he supposes. He and Tadashi don’t say anything more than is entirely necessary. No one has talked to Tsukishima about it. He hopes no one has asked Tadashi about it, either. 

But that stupid letter lays on his desk, taunting him night after night. 

He’s not the most intuitive person in the world, but he is good at math. Probability is his strong suit. Weighing all possible outcomes and being able to accurately predict the one that actually transpires is his forte. 

He knows Tadashi didn’t get in. It’s statistically almost impossible that even Tsukishima made it, even with his high grades. Tadashi isn’t dumb by any stretch of the word, and he’s surely motivated, but —

Tsukishima knows. 

He’s not so delusional as to think he’s a comforting type of person, but every time he reaches for his phone to call Tadashi to listen to his plights only to turn to his homework instead, he can’t help but feel like even his awkward  _ that sucks _ would be better than this radio silence. 

It’s not the only phone call he’s been avoiding, either.

~~~~~~~~~~

_ 2 new messages from Sawamura Daichi. _

_ [March 31, 2013 15:32] >> I still don’t know why you want it, but here’s Kuroo’s number. 0XX-XXX-XXXX _ _  
_ _ [March 31, 2013 15:33] >> Consider it a parting gift.  _

~~~~~~~~~

By the fourth ring, he’s convinced there won’t be an answer. 

On the sixth ring, a soft,  _ “Hello?” _

Tsukishima lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He has a hand-written script in front of him, the fourth draft in the t-rex shaped memo pad Tadashi got him as a joke for his fifteenth birthday. None of the words he’s practiced again and again matter right now, though. Instead, he blurts out, “I got in,” in a rush that barely sounds like words at all. 

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the line. “I know.”

Tsukishima doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. 

“Your mom told my mom the day you got your letter.” There’s the sound of rustling, like moving around on top of an unmade bed. “I got rejected.”

“I know,” Tsukishima says. 

There’s a few moments of silence. It might be tense, but Tsukishima could be projecting. 

The quiet stretches for far too long, so long that Tsukishima’s internal clock can’t keep track of the seconds anymore. 

“I won’t apologize for not telling Kuroo,” Tsukishima says, because he’s a complete ass. “I am sorry for saying those things about you, though.” Because he misses his friend and Kuroo’s phone number has been burning a hole in his pocket for two years and he’s almost desperate enough to have called him during their three week fight. 

Tadashi is quiet and Tsukishima wonders if this really was the last straw. But then he says in that mom voice Tsukishima hates being on the receiving end of, “I just really don’t understand why you won’t. You’re soulmates. You’re supposed to be together.”

It isn’t an acceptance of his apology, but it’s something and Tsukishima can’t help but think the sound of Tadashi’s voice is the only thing keeping him together right now. “I’m not ready right now. I…” he pauses. His eyes land on the still unopened acceptance letter on his desk. The papers and pens scattered across the surface seem to know it’s a cursed object, as they all leave at least an inch radius around the envelope. Like touching the thing will curse them, too. “I have other things to think about.”

“Hmm.” Tadashi sighs. “I won’t say it’s okay, because what you said was really mean, Tsukki. But thank you. For apologizing.” 

Tsukishima lets out a breath of relief and clutches the shirt resting over his chest. 

“You probably haven’t even opened the letter, have you?”

He reaches out to touch the paper, reluctantly, like it might burn him. He doesn’t say anything. 

Tadashi chuckles. “You’re such a softie, Tsukki.” More rustling. “Go on, open it. I wanna hear all about all the high dollar scholarships your big brain earned you.”

Tsukishima feels the corners of his lips quirk upward slightly as he runs his fingernail under the flap.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Hey, Bo, 'Kaashi?"

Bokuto turns to look at Kuroo over his shoulder, body still facing Akaashi in what is assuredly not at all a possessive stance. Kuroo watches in amusement as Akaashi leans his head to peer over Bokuto's shoulder. 

"Yeah, bro?" 

Maybe it's the third year I'm-about-to-graduate wistfulness, or maybe it's the it's-my-last-season-of-high-school-volleyball blues, or maybe none of that at all, but something soft and warm roots itself in Kuroo's ribcage as he takes in the empty court in front of him. He imagines it bustling with a bunch of sweaty dudes slamming their feelings out through a rubber ball, he can see himself killing spike after spike with his hands hovering over the net, he pictures having a whole new school--the wingless crows, at that--join their training regime. But it's more than that, he's sure. Something burrows itself into his chest that he can't quite explain. 

He settles a hand on his cocked hip as he looks on at his two best friends in their casual intimacy (and definitely doesn't have to quash the burning jealousy that roils through his gut when he thinks about how easy it was for them to find each other). He smiles, knowing they've got their attention fully attuned to himself. 

"This summer is the one. I can feel it."

Akaashi raises one eyebrow nearly to his hairline. Bokuto turns his body to face Kuroo completely, his eyes widened but face uncharacteristically unreadable besides. 

And, yeah, Kuroo understands why they aren't jumping for joy at his revelation. Last fall was rough — he remembers spending the entire summer optimistic, hopeful for some meet-cute with a stranger also looking for some summer spark, looking around every corner for a new person he could possibly, maybe, someday learn to love. When August had come and gone with nigh new romance, not even a cute crush, Kuroo was, well. 

Crushed. 

(In September: lots of tissues, ice cream, and tears resolutely not shed at those dumb rom comes his grandma insisted they watch twice a week for family bonding time.

In October: see above, but with bat shaped fairy lights dancing around his room. 

In November: see above, minus the winged rats, plus oversized sweaters thrifted with two friends who couldn't keep their hands off each other.

By December: the tears were replaced by perhaps misplaced anger at his soulmate for not showing themself during  _ their season _ while he had to watch all his classmates fall in disgustingly sick love with each other. )

But this is different! It's a weird tingly feeling in his fingertips and a little weird sensation in his toes; it's his gut screaming at him that  _ This is Not a Drill! _

~~

Pale hair reflecting in the moonlight catches Kuroo’s attention from the corner of his eye. Something heavy settles in the pit of his stomach, like a bowling ball dropping into his intestines.

“Hey, you! Skinny, with the glasses!” he calls out, because that thing in his chest compels him to. “Can you maybe jump a few blocks for us?”

~~

That lopsided smile doesn’t quite sit right. The hand rubbing at his neck looks anything but nonchalant. 

The mark on Kuroo’s collarbone tingles. 

Watching Tsukishima walk out of the gym with a dismissive remark about his job being done makes whatever thing took root in his chest to wriggle around uncomfortably. He rubs the spot over his heart as he watches Tsukishima walk away as if trying to massage the pain away. 

He misses the look Bokuto and Akaashi share on the other side of the net. 


	2. leaks in the stitches i've sewn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which tsukki is really just a big jerk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it doesn't feel right to post without making it abundantly clear that black lives matter, and i wholeheartedly am in support of everyone who is protesting, raising their voice, and doing what they can during these painful times. i write as an escape, so i hope my work can bring all of you some joy during these dark times.

Though his room is a single— _Oh my god, Tsukki, that’s so lucky!_ —he’s being forced to be social. 

He’s sitting with his knobby knees pulled up to his chest, squished between some other freshman who obviously has never heard of nor purchased deodorant and a wall painted by someone overzealous with a texture brush. Two upperclassmen stand with clipboards in their hands, one with a welcoming smile that reminds Tsukishima of Sugawara, the other with a bored expression that screams _I’m only here for the free room and board._ The nicer looking one is prattling off dormitory rules while his finger traces over the papers jammed into the clipboard poised against his hip. The other one scans the dozen or so barely-legal dudes cramped into what can’t be more than ten square feet of hallway space lined with scratchy carpet. 

Tsukishima slips his phone out of his pocket and snaps a quick picture just over the peak of his kneecaps. He captions it _hope your first night is less boring than mine_ and sends it to Tadashi. 

When the bored one says, “—we’re all adults here, but for the love of all that is holy, do not bring loud sexual partners into the wing,” his phone buzzes in his hands. 

_[20:14] >> [img] _

He clicks it open to see a picture of Tadashi with his hair unruly like he hasn’t brushed it in a week, a pink and white plastic lei around his neck, giant neon yellow sunglasses poised precariously on the bridge of his nose. His arm is thrown around some guy who is presumably his roommate. There’s a giant grin plastered on his face that seems to mock Tsukishima in his misery.

_[20:15] >> Freshman photobooth! _

~~~~~~

He’s not sure how something like an orientation pep rally could be considered mandatory. At least a thousand people are all crammed into the skating-rink-turned-auditorium. How could anybody even take attendance in here?

On the stage below him, three mascots are jumping around each other while shooting t-shirts out of tube-shaped guns as reflective confetti rains down from somewhere in the rafters. The people on either side of him are losing their minds, waving around foam fingers and shouting along with the too-loud pop music blasting from overhead speakers. 

When he first heard that the first Monday of the semester would be filled with orientation activities instead of classes, Tsukishima thought he’d be happy to stave off his inevitable school stress for another day. 

But he was wrong. 

This is much, much worse than any 8 AM lecture could be, he thinks presently. 

The girl to his left lets out a scream not unlike the sounds Tsukishima imagines must belong to Banshees. 

~~

It’s 3 in the afternoon when the pep rally from hell releases Tsukishima from its clutches. The sun is blazing overhead, far too warm for April. The remnants of dried-out cherry blossoms line the sidewalk as the entirety of the freshman class pours from the auditorium in screaming droves. 

It’s too early for dinner, and the last message he received from Tadashi came four hours ago— _Orientation day. Call tonight?_ —but he doesn’t want to go back to his room just yet. He pulls out his phone, contemplating asking Tadashi if he could call early. He thinks better of it, instead clicking open the gallery app. The first picture is of his class schedule, the shitty lighting of his dorm obvious in the grainy shadows swallowing nearly the whole page. He sighs as he zooms in on the image, squinting as he tries to decipher the four letters of the building name of his first class tomorrow. 

Tsukishima makes the trek back to his dorm hall, the _Welcome Honours Students! We’re “honoured” to have you!_ sign spread across the entryway flapping in the barely-there breeze. The campus map he has pulled up on his phone unhelpfully lists this building as HNRH. Surely there has to be a better naming system than whatever convoluted acronym-riddled insanity Tokyo University has come up with. Whatever the case, Tsukishima sighs once more before starting the route he’ll be taking for the rest of the semester. 

~~

The dining hall food is just as bad as the internet told him it’d be, but somehow he’s still disappointed. 

(Of course, it has nothing to do with the empty spot in front of him while pairs or groups of people around him chatter and laugh with their mouths full of food.) 

Tsukishima flicks through his open conversation with Tadashi. He sent a picture of the grey-tinged chicken on his plate with the caption _bone apple teeth_ twenty minutes ago and hasn’t received a reply, not even a laughing emoji. With a sigh, Tsukishima spears the meat in front of him without a hint of malice. As he lifts the bite to his mouth, he sees a flash of something from the corner of his eye. 

He turns his gaze to the exit of the dining hall and is met with an all too familiar hairstyle, albeit a little longer and more unruly than the last time he saw it. Jet black hair stands impossibly high, shaped in what has to be a purposefully accidental just-woke-up bedhead. It’s only there for a moment, mocking Tsukishima for the briefest of seconds, before it turns left through the threshold and is gone. 

Surely, it’s not who he thinks it is. Plenty of college students probably have the same awful taste in disheveled hairstyles, he thinks. 

Surely. 

~~

When he gets back to his dorm, belly half full of lukewarm “meat,” he steps on a slightly crumpled piece of neon pink paper that’s been jammed under the door. He bends down and picks it up with a slight scowl. Classes haven’t even begun and already the onslaught of unsolicited flyers has. There, in stark black boldened Comic Sans are the words: _Tokyo U Volleyball Team presents: Public skirmish @ 7:30 PM!!! Tryouts Tuesday and Wednesday night! Come check us out before you try out!_ Clipart volleyballs line the page in a poorly constructed border. 

Tskushima scoffs and sets the paper in the little blue waste bin he’s designated for recycling as he makes his way to his desk. He powers on his laptop, intent on familiarizing himself with the syllabi of his classes that have already posted some information. Before he can so much as click on the link for his first class, a knock at his door interrupts him. He’s got half a mind to ignore it entirely as his headphones call to him from their resting spot on the edge of his desk. 

“Tsukishima? It’s Saito, open up.”

He glances at his wall calendar to see if he’d missed another wing meeting or something. Eyebrow raised, he stands and opens his door to greet the kinder of his two RAs. “Yes?” he asks, perhaps with a little more malice than he intended. 

That doesn’t stop Saito from smiling broadly. “Just wanted to check in with you!” When Tsukishima doesn’t respond, Saito’s smile falters slightly. “Um, you played volleyball in high school, right? And went all the way to nationals?”

“Yeah,” Tsukishima responds slowly, eyebrow raised questioningly. “Why?”

“Oh, well, my friend is on our varsity team and he told me they’re having a public practice tonight. I was just headed out to go watch. Did you want to come with? Maybe size up if it’s worth your time to try out?” Saito’s smile grows as he speaks. He subtly shifts his weight forward to the balls of his feet, as if trying to seem a little bit taller as Tsukishima stares down at him. 

Tsukishima’s eyes flicker to the neon flyer currently at the bottom of his waste bin. “No, I already plan to try out anyway.” He begins to shut his door, hoping Saito will take the hint and leave.

“Oh!” No such luck. “Well, okay. Um, see you around, Tsukishima. I hope your first day of classes tomorrow is great!” Saito says with far too much excitement in his voice. 

Nodding, Tsukishima manages to close the door without Saito saying anything else. He listens as Saito sighs from the other side of the door and shuffles away after standing still for a moment. 

Weird. 

The buzzing of his phone pulls him from whatever awkward thing that was. He can’t help the quirk of his lips as he pulls his phone out from his pocket and sees a new message from Tadashi. 

_[18:04] >> You won’t believe who I ran into! _ _  
_ _[18:04] >> [img] _

Attached is a selfie of Tadashi with his arm slung around a much shorter guy with cropped light coloured hair. He looks familiar, but Tsukishima can’t place his face. 

_[18:05] << am i supposed to know who that is? _

Tsukishima looks down at his laptop with disdain. Is it too early to go to sleep?

 _[18:05] >> Rude, Tsukki! _ _  
_ _[18:05] >> It’s Yaku, the libero from Nekoma during our first year! _ _  
_ _[18:06] >> I know you only had eyes for ~one~ Nekoma guy, so I’ll forgive you. _ _  
_ _[18:08] >> Anyway, he works the front desk at my residence hall :) _

Bed sounds great.

~~~~~~

The lecture hall is _huge._

The plaque outside the doorway reads MAXIMUM OCCUPANCY: 325, but Tsukishima thinks it must be large enough to hold another 300 beyond that. But with the way the swivel chairs seem to be spread at least two feet apart, it doesn’t seem like the university is going for a crammed sardine-style lecture, for which Tsukishima is grateful. He readjusts the strap of his backpack hanging over one shoulder and steps down one, two, three, twelve steps to get to the front row. 

(On the periphery of the room, of course. Tsukishima is a 6’5” giant and he doesn’t have any delusions.)

He takes a seat and glances around the room, looking for a clock only to find there isn’t one. He checks the time on his phone, _08:45._ There are only a few other students setting up their stuff on the tables in front of them, the sounds of rustling papers and backpacks being unzipped seeming to echo in the too-large, too-empty room. 

As Tsukishima pulls out his pens and notebook, students begin to slowly trickle in. Most of them gravitate toward the seats toward the back of the room, unsurprisingly. A surly man dressed in a stereotypically ill-fitting tweed jacket, pleather elbow patches and all, enters the front of the room from a door Tsukishima hadn’t noticed just behind the podium at 8:58. He catches Tsukishima’s eye and smiles awkwardly before pulling stack after stack of papers from his briefcase. 

“Alright, welcome to General Biology. I know none of you actually printed out the syllabus like I mentioned in my welcome email last week, so I brought plenty of copies. We’ll pass them around the room while I introduce…”

Someone stumbles into the seat next to Tsukishima, obviously trying to make as little noise as possible but failing miserably. They slam their disposable coffee cup onto the table, sloshing a little over the lip and onto Tsukishima’s open notebook. 

“Oh my gosh, I’m _so sorry_ , it’s been one of those mornings,” a feminine voice whispers.

Tsukishima breathes deeply through his nostrils and turns to face whatever monster would ruin his pristine notebook before he got a chance to put anything in it. 

The girl before him has dip-dyed blonde hair and too much mascara smudged onto her lower lashline. She smiles at him innocently, dropping her backpack with a loud _thud_ to the floor between them. She mouths _sorry_ once more before pulling out her own supplies. 

Tsukishima turns his attention back to the professor at the front of the room who is still clicking through a powerpoint presentation. The current slide has a picture of a dog with a frisbee in his mouth. 

A finger taps his shoulder just as the professor clicks to the next slide, a picture of a teenage girl holding a lacrosse stick. Tsukishima turns to the Late Girl With Coffee. She’s holding out the stack of syllabi in her hand. Her nails are painted a bright pink and have little jewels on them. Tsukishima takes the papers from her and she _winks_ at him. 

When he lifts the top sheet off the stack to place in front of him, a small pastel piece of paper drops to his lap. He lifts it and sees the name _Makoto <3 _ written in kawaii font just above a phone number. He wants to crumple the paper and toss it onto the ground, but he can feel Late Girl With Coffee staring at him so he shoves it unceremoniously into his pocket instead and hands the stack to the person sitting behind him without looking back at her. She visibly deflates when he begins scanning the syllabus in front of him instead of paying her any mind. 

Tsukishima scans the paper, skimming over the course learning objectives and assignment due dates for now. He flips it over and sees the contact section. The third name from the top catches his eye. 

_Iwaizumi Hajime, TA. email:_ [ _iwahaji24@xxx.edu_ ](mailto:iwahaji24@xxx.edu)

Tsukishima tries to subtly look around the lecture hall to see if he can spot Iwaizumi somewhere, but doesn’t have much luck. 

The world is too small. 

~~

“Are you excited for tryouts?” Tadashi’s voice rings out, tinny through the phone speaker. 

Tsukishima scoffs. “As long as they see that I’m better than freshman team material, I don’t really care.”

Tadashi laughs. “I’m sure all you have to do is mention ‘nationals’ and they’ll give you a JV spot.”

“Even if they don’t, I have four years to get to varsity, anyway,” Tsukishima says as he slips on his runners. “How’s roommate life?”

“Ugh, Tsukki, you’re so lucky you don’t have to deal with this. It’s been three days and already there’s this toilet paper thing…”

~~

The first thing Tsukishima sees when he steps into the blessedly air conditioned gym is _dudes_. Several tall, buff guys stand behind fold up tables, smiling and handing over clipboards and pens to nervous looking freshmen. A few stern, older looking men sit in folding chairs near the tables, arms crossed while they observe every person who walks through the doors. Tsukishima rolls his shoulder under the weight of his gym back on his shoulder. 

As he heads toward one of the tables with a handwritten _Sign up here!_ sign taped to the front, a burly woman stops him by placing herself in his path. She has her hair pulled back into a low ponytail, accentuating her severe facial features. Her tracksuit bears the Tokyo University crest. She looks over Tsukishima with a critical eye, from head to toe. 

Tsukishima is glad he’s already in his practice clothes. 

“What position do you play?” the woman asks, voice monotone. 

The sound of a ball slamming into the floor rings out across the way. Tsukishima looks over the shoulder of the woman in front of him to see a dozen or so guys half-heartedly practicing sets and spikes. Most of them are hardly paying attention, their eyes continuously moving to the gym entrance to size up the new guys. He reverts his gaze back to the woman’s uninterested face. “Middle blocker,” he says a little smugly. 

“Figures,” she breathes out with little emotion. “How tall’re you?”

He can’t help the smirk that crosses his face. “6’5”.”

She lets out a low whistle, giving his body a once over again. “Alright, I’ll give you the paperwork later. First…” She turns away from Tsukishima to face the guys practicing behind her. “Kuroo!” she calls out. 

Tsukishima’s heart stutters. The mark painted into his collarbone tingles. 

Surely this is some weird coincidence. 

Surely. 

Tsukishima’s eyes roam the court, searching but desperately hoping it’ll all be for naught—

Sure enough, out from a throng of sweaty dudes steps none other than Kuroo Tetsurou. 

His hair is a little longer than before, _before_ , but just as messy, his skin a little more tan, his shoulders a little broader.

( _A little hotter,_ Tsukishima resolutely doesn’t think.)

The friendly smile painted across Kuroo’s (undeniably beautiful, _fuck_ ) face morphs into a sinister smirk as he catches Tsukishima’s eye. He ambles over as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. 

When he reaches the side of the Stone-Faced Tracksuit Lady, she asks, “What do you think?” and jabs her thumb in Tsukishima’s direction, like he’s nothing more than a slice of meat in a deli. 

But Kuroo hasn’t broken eye contact with Tsukishima. “I think he’s the best blocker I’ve had the honour of facing, Coach.”

“Y’know him?” ‘Coach’ asks, eyebrow raised slightly—the only indication of emotion that’s passed her face during this whole interaction. 

Kuroo’s eyes finally leave Tuskishima’s face to roam his body. Tsukishima barely represses the urge to shiver under the scrutiny. “I taught him everything he knows, ma’am.”

Tsukishima snorts. “That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?” he tilts his head slightly as he readjusts the strap on his shoulder. “I had a few tricks up my sleeve to beat you at nationals that you didn’t teach me at all.”

Kuroo throws his arm over his stomach and lets out a full-body guffaw that echoes in the gym. It’s just like the laugh he let out in the closet all those years ago, and _fuck,_ Tsukishima doesn’t need to be thinking about that right now, because Kuroo is placing a placating hand on his coach’s shoulder and smiling so breezily as he says, “I can vouch for the guy. Definitely better than freshman material.”

The woman looks down at the hand on her shoulder with little emotion, but Tsukishima can see the resignation in the soft creases of her face. “I’ll consider him for JV, then.”

“C’mon,” Kuroo lifts his hand from the woman’s shoulder, face suddenly serious, “at least let him play with the varsity guys for a bit. You’ll see.”

The coach considers for a minute, face still unreadable as she stares up at Tsukishima. He doesn’t move a muscle and hopes he is able to keep his face as blank as hers. Without breaking eye contact, she says, “Fine, but if I don’t think he’s worth it you’re running suicides until you puke.”

Kuroo’s grin is back. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Outside.”

The grin doesn’t falter as he winks at Tsukishima. “Not a problem.”

~~

Pristine white shoes, free of a single scuff, enter Tsukishima’s vision as he’s shoving his own practice shoes into the front pocket of his gym bag. He peeks over the rim of his glasses to see the impassive face Coach Harada staring down at him. 

“Varsity,” she says. She drops a piece of paper into his lap. “Tell Kuroo-kun he better watch his back as starting middle blocker. Kid might’ve talked his way out of his own job, the way he tried to convince me to let you on varsity.”

Tsukishima stands, pulling the gym bag over his shoulder, the paper clutched in his free hand. “Tried?”

Harada shrugs one shoulder. “Your skills speak for themselves. Kuroo-kun didn’t need to flap his lips the way he did, but you know how the kid is.” There’s almost a trace of fondness that crosses her face, almost. 

He stands there for a moment, fingers clasped around the strap of his bag. Maybe he was expecting a _welcome to the team,_ or even a _don’t fuck it up, frosh,_ but Harada doesn’t say anything, just keeps standing there looking up at him without so much as a smile on her face. It suits him just fine, the no-bullshit face of a coach who doesn’t spare words. Tsukishima smirks and nods in salutation before walking past her toward the exit. 

As he walks away, he hears Harada mutter _So damn tall_ under her breath.

Tsukishima feels his smirk grows a little. 

When he steps through the gym doors, he sees the sun already starting to set and everything around has that golden hour glow about it. He reaches into his pocket to power on his phone to text Tadashi that he’ll be back to his dorm soon, just as his stomach lets out a voracious growl. 

“Must’ve worked up an appetite trying to take over my position, eh?”

He _doesn’t_ jump at the sudden sound of a voice. He looks over his shoulder and sees Kuroo leaning oh-so-casually against the side of the gym, ever-present smirk plastered on his face. Tsukishima ignores the way his soulmark tingles on his clavicle. “You look creepy.”

Kuroo clutches his chest and contorts his face in feigned pain, pushing himself off the wall with his heel. “After I hyped you up to Coach Harada, that’s what you have to say to me? Tsukki, I’m hurt.”

“Tch,” Tsukishima scoffs, nudging his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t need you to _hype me up._ Coach saw my abilities and was amazed enough to put me on varsity, of course.”

Kuroo lets out a low whistle, face falling into what must be his neutral expression—a grin a mile wide. “Impressive as always, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima shifts his weight to his left foot, hoping his face remains impassive at the compliment he doesn’t know how to take. Normally he’d brush it off with some smug comment, but Kuroo’s grin has melted into some mushy, soft smile while they’re just staring at each other and he doesn’t know what to do about the way his soulmark feels like a red hot brand pressing into his collarbone. 

“Anyway,” Kuroo says as he brushes a stray piece of hair out of his eyes, “you probably don’t know the area very well, right? Let me take you to dinner. There’s the best shitty diner not far from here.”

“Why would I want to eat at a shitty restaurant?”

Kuroo rests a hand on his cocked hip, raising a finger and wagging it like he’s scolding a child. “No, Tsukki, a shitty _diner._ You go to a restaurant for food, you go to a diner for an _experience_. C’mon, it’ll be great!”

Tsukishima wrinkles his nose. “I am disgusting and need to shower.” He lets his eyes rove Kuroo’s body. “So do you.”

And, oh, that grin is back, this time one hundred percent feral. “Is that an invitation?”

He doesn’t know what face he makes, but it must be _something_ because Kuroo bursts into that too-wild laughter that haunts Tsukishima. 

“I’m just kidding, Tsukki, relax.” Kuroo gives him that soft smile again and Tsukishima kind of wants to vomit, if the stirring in his gut is any indication. “You live in a dorm, right? Why don’t you go back, shower, and we can meet up in half an hour?”

Tsukishima weighs his options. Dining hall food isn’t great, and he’s not thrilled at the idea of eating in such a loud place again. Takeout and a video call with Tadashi would be ideal, but Tadashi said he’ll be out until late tonight. And, like Kuroo said, Tsukishima doesn’t know the area well, so he isn’t sure where he’d go to get food that is more substantial than the McDonald’s shoved into the corner of campus. His phone buzzes to life in his pocket, finally awoken after he pressed the on switch before he walked out of the gym. He feels the telltale vibration of a text, another, another. His mother, surely. He shrugs and averts his gaze from the too-soft face Kuroo is still making at him on the sidewalk, waiting for his answer. “Sure,” he says in a voice that doesn’t quite feel like his own, “but if I get food poisoning, I’m going to punch you.”

That damned smile, too genuine to mean anything good, has graced Kuroo’s unfairly angular face. _Has his jawline gotten sharper?_ Kuroo steps forward, his toes merely a foot away from Tsukishima’s. Tsukishima doesn’t really know what’s happening, or _why Kuroo couldn’t leave him alone_ , _how did he end up in the same place again_ , but Kuroo’s lips quirk ever-higher into a smirk once more. “Alright then. I’ll pick you up from your dorm. What hall?”

Now that he’s a few inches taller than Kuroo, it’s easier to tilt his chin up and look down at Kuroo over his nose. Smug. “Honour’s Hall.”

Really, by this point Tsukishima should stop guessing what Kuroo is going to say or do next, because Kuroo is shaking his head and chuckling quietly, a deeper, gravelly thing compared to his horrendous laughter that rattles Tsukishima’s brain. Kuroo steps past Tsukishima, but stops to rest a hand on his shoulder as he says, “Never change, Tsukki.”

~~

Tsukishima steps out of the shower with a towel tied low around his waist. He ambles over to his bed to check the time on his phone and sees the notification for three unread messages, all from his mother. 

_[16:24] >> I hope your first day was wonderful! _ _  
_ _[16:30] >> How were tryouts? _ _  
_ _[16:45] >> Call me when you get home for the night. Love you, Kei! _

It’s nothing less than he expected from his mother, who needed to carry around a tissue box while helping him unpack his things on move-in day. He shakes his head with a small smile playing on his lips and clicks on his conversation with Tadashi. The last message was from Tadashi, a picture of his hand holding out a half-eaten potato chip to a squirrel that looks ready to bite off fingers if it came to it. Tsukishima types out a quick _going out for dinner. Call after?_ and hits send without adding further detail. The last thing Tsukishima needs is for his best friend to continuously call and message about _oh my god, Kuroo?!_ throughout his dinner. 

His dinner with Kuroo. 

God, what even are the chances?

Tsukishima slips into the jeans and t-shirt combo from earlier, smoothing out any lingering wrinkles of his shirt as he fusses in the mirror. His fingertips hover over the soulmark hidden beneath his collar. 

~~~~~~~~~

Playing with Kuroo again sends a fire burning through Tsukishima’s veins. It’s been years since they’ve faced each other across the net, and even longer since they’ve been on the same side of the court. The heat he can feel radiating from Kuroo beside him makes his palms sweat as he denies spike after spike. 

The way Kuroo jumps extra high when they push together to form a wall kicks up a weird stirring feeling in Tsukishima’s stomach. 

The way Kuroo grins at him when they successfully slam down a spike from the ace makes that weird stirring feeling in his stomach amplify tenfold.

Watching Kuroo land his own kill and the subsequent smirk reminds Tsukishima that _this isn’t the time_ for his soulmark to tingle, a reminder that it’s still there and it’s up to Tsukishima to deal with it. 

_Deal with it._

As he waits, knees bent, hands raised in anticipation of the incoming ball, watching the setter (who, frankly, is way too obvious) make his move, he contemplates accidentally letting it show. The locker room, maybe. The first time he’s made to run laps outside as punishment for something, perhaps. 

_Oh, this? It matches yours? I’d forgotten what it looks like. What a coincidence._

Yeah, if he makes it nonchalant, makes the reveal an accident, Kuroo couldn’t possibly be upset--

 _Shit,_ Tsukishima didn’t catch the subtle shake of the setter’s head toward the wing spiker that foretold the setter dump. The ball bounces once, twice in front of his feet, mocking him. 

A hand slaps him on the back. “Ohoho, is Tsukki spacing out? You definitely should’ve caught that. Maybe you aren’t varsity material, after all…” The grin is evident in Kuroo’s playful voice. 

Tsukishima scoffs, brushing his bangs from his forehead. “I couldn’t possibly have predicted that.” Of course, he could’ve, if the damn kanji for summer wasn’t pulsating at his clavicle. “I haven’t seen him do a setter dump, yet, so how could I have known his tell?”

Kuroo chuckles. “It’s okay, no need to be embarrassed. Everyone misses one every now and then.” He winks. “Better not miss the next, though. Gotta impress Coach to get on varsity, eh?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Twenty-seven minutes after Kuroo told him _Never change,_ whatever the hell that is supposed to mean, Tsukishima opens the door to his room. Before him stands his RA, the nice one. Saito, maybe. 

“Can I help you?” Tsukishima asks, eyebrow raised. 

Saito-maybe jumps, his shoulders rising to his ears. “Oh! Tsukishima! I was just about to knock, haha.” The sentence dies in nervous laughter. 

Tsukishima doesn’t say anything. His hand is still gripping his doorknob. His key dangles from the lanyard grasped in his other hand. 

“Um,” Saito-maybe clears his throat. “S-So, there’s the diner my friend and I always go to--you know, the friend I mentioned was on the volleyball team? Oh, did you go to tryouts today? You probably saw him, he’s super tall, but not as tall as you, and I guess all volleyball players are probably tall--um, anyway, I was headed to this place, the, uh, diner we usually go to, sometimes, and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go for dinner. Y’know, with me? It’s not far from here--”

“Sorry, I actually already have dinner plans,” Tsukishima interrupts. He narrows his eyes, trying to read Saito-maybe’s quickly reddening face. 

“Oh!” Saito-maybe’s cheeks darken further. He smiles, but it’s wobbly. “Making friends already? Haha.” Nervous laughter punctuates his sentence again.

Tsukishima continues looking down at Saito-maybe. He waits for the man to move. Six beats pass and still Saito-maybe doesn’t move. Tsukishima clears his throat. “Yeah. So, um…” he trails off, the awkwardness of this encounter creeping up the back of his neck. 

“Oh! Right, I should probably get out of your way, huh? Haha.” That stupid nervous laughter. _Again._ Saito-maybe does step away from the doorframe, but is still staring up at Tsukishima with bright crimson splattered across his nose and cheeks. 

Tsukishima steps through the doorway and locks the door behind him, Saito-maybe still standing next to him, shifting his weight from foot to foot, watching Tsukishima stick the key in the lock. Briefly, Tsukishima considers what the process of switching dormitory wings must entail if he’s going to have Saito-maybe crawling up his ass everyday like this. But as he steps away from his room—his _private, single_ room with a _private bathroom_ —he decides it probably isn’t worth it.

Even if that forlorn sigh sounds behind him as he walks away. 

The muggy evening air accosts him as he steps through the entrance of the dormitory. The welcome sign still flaps in the not at all refreshing breeze from the rafters above him as he takes a deep breath. Creepy RA or not, he’s here. He’s made it to a top-tier university, onto the varsity volleyball team, through his first day of the next four years of his life. 

“You’re two minutes late, Tsukki. Gotta say, I expected better from you.”

From the shadow of the building, Kuroo steps into Tsukishima’s field of view, cat-like grin plastered onto his face. His hair seems more tame than at tryouts, small droplets of water still dripping from the ends and into the rivulet of his collarbone. 

His collarbone. 

There, on the tip of his clavicle, painted in dark red is the kanji for _summer_ on full display because goddamn Kuroo Tetsurou is wearing a goddamn boat neck t-shirt. 

(Tsukishima only knows what this is called because Akiteru, upon discovering where Tsukishima’s soulmark is, insisted on buying him no less than three of the god forsaken shirts _to help you find your soulmate, Kei!_ )

Before Tsukishima can so much as clear the lump gathering in his throat, Kuroo steps way, way too close to Tsukishima so that their toes are practically touching and lifts his hand, bringing it up toward Tsukishima’s face, and he has this serious look in his eyes but that stupid, stupid grin is still there and _oh my god why is he leaning in so close?_

Tsukishima’s breath hitches in his throat as Kuroo’s hand inches ever closer to his cheek, but at the last moment, Kuroo taps his palm against the top of his own head, then extends it out toward Tuskishima’s face. The side of his pinky brushes Tsukishima’s forehead, just above his brow. Kuroo’s face is screwed up in concentration, lips still turned upward in amusement. 

“How the hell did you get even taller?” Kuroo breathes out, exasperated. Too quiet, still. “Stop it.”

From this angle, Tsukishima has a clear view of Kuroo’s soulmark branded into tanned skin, sitting close to the white collar of Kuroo’s striped shirt. He swallows. The skin of his forehead tingles where Kuroo’s hand touched him. 

Kuroo pulls away and sweeps a stray bang out of his eyes. “And your hair is longer. Really, Tsukki, you must be a real lady killer with those curls.” His grin takes on that sinister undertone again and Tsukishima feels like his skin is crawling over his bones. “Meanwhile, I have to spend an hour everyday trying to tamp down this rat’s nest,” he says as he waves his hand in a sweeping gesture toward his perpetual bedhead. 

“Tch,” Tsukishima scoffs. “You could shave it all off. Then you’d never have to worry about it.”

Kuroo’s face twists, and Tsukishima wishes it was unattractive. “No thanks. I know my head is weirdly shaped under this mess.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and begins to walk away from the building. “Anyway, the diner isn’t too far from here. Let’s go, yeah?”

~~

This coffee is terrible, he’s sure, but it’s infinitely better than the oily sludge served in the dining hall. The flecks of peeling vinyl poking the backs of his thighs through his jeans make him adjust in the booth every twenty seconds, but it’s infinitely better than the hard-bottomed stools without backs in the dining hall. The laminated menu sticks to the table top every time he tries to pick it up, but it’s infinitely better than staring at an empty chair in front of him in the dining hall. 

Even if Kuroo’s damn soul mark is like a magnet for his gaze. 

He can’t tell if the pleased smirk playing on Kuroo’s lips is because he knows Tsukishima can’t stop looking, or if it’s because he’s an asshole. 

Over the rim of his chipped coffee mug, Kuroo says, “I guess I shouldn’t have been, but I was surprised to see you in that gym today. “

“Country folk go to university too, you know.”

“Pfft, okay, I deserved that.” Kuroo chuckles and lowers the mug to the table. His hand circles the mouth of the cup absently. “I meant trying out for volleyball at college, dork.”

Tsukishima shrugs. “I’ve heard about the freshman fifteen. I thought I could avoid it this way.”

Kuroo’s grin widens. “Sure, it has nothing to do with volleyball being _fun_ now, does it?”

“Think whatever you want.” He hopes the words come out as nonchalant as they sounded in his head. 

Chuckling, Kuroo leans back in his seat and stretches his legs forward slightly. Their knees brush under the table, and Tsukishima struggles to not immediately curl his legs into himself. “College volleyball is for those who wanna go pro but couldn’t right after high school.”

Tsukishima clicks his tongue. “I’m keeping my options open.”

“Oho?”

“If I get an offer to go pro, I’ll take it. Otherwise, I’ll go into industry.”

“Which industry?” Kuroo leans forward so his chin rests in one of his hands. 

Their knees still touch. “Museums.”

“Oh…” Kuroo breathes out. “Because you like dinosaurs, right?”

Tsukishima bristles. “What? How do you even know--”

“Shrimpy mentioned it once when he visited Kenma,” Kuroo says.

Tsukishima wants to ask how he could have possibly ended up in a conversation in another prefecture between two people who, to his knowledge, don’t like him all that much. Kenma’s glare at nationals three years ago flashes in his mind, and he thinks better of asking. Instead, he says, “No, because I like history, I guess.”

“You guess?” Kuroo raises a brow and opens his mouth to say something else—probably something that’ll make Tsukishima want to crawl into a hole and die—but the waitress walks up to their table with two giant plates of food. 

She sets the plates on the table in front of them and smiles, asks _can I get you handsome fellas anything else?_ with a wink pointed in Tsukishima’s direction.

Kuroo is still grinning like a right idiot as he says _no, thank you, everything looks lovely_ and throws a wink right back.

He has no clue how Kuroo goes from shoving the first bite of rubbery eggs into his mouth to sighing like a lovesick school girl and saying, “College is so _hard,_ Tsukki. I just wanna settle down and stop with all these stupid dating,” he flutters his hand in a fleeting gesture at nothing, “games.”

Tsukishima refuses to make eye contact. Instead, he cuts away a small piece of pancake. “Oh? Different than you were a few years ago, then?”

Kuroo sighs heavily. “I was young and stupid then, Tsukki.”

At this, Tsukishima raises his gaze. “You were the same age I am now.” A silent accusation. 

“You and I both know you’re on a different level than I am, Tsukki,” Kuroo says with overwhelming affection seeping into his voice. Tsukishima feels heat rise to his cheeks.

He clears his throat. “I… don’t know what that means,” he says slowly. 

Kuroo just lets out another sigh, high and forlorn and Tsukishima wants it to stop. “It’s just rough when all your friends have found their soulmate and you haven’t, you know?”

The skin of Tsukishima’s clavicle burns and he barely resists the urge to lift his hand to touch his soulmark, hidden beneath his t-shirt. “I don’t really, no. Tadashi doesn’t have a soul mark,” he says in lieu of incriminating himself. 

(Realistically, he knows he’s really only delaying the inevitable. He could easily say _joke’s on you, I have your soul mark on my shoulder,_ or really do _anything_ other than sit here and pretend they’re not soulmates.)

(But it’s _not the time.)_

“Really?” Kuroo’s eyebrows raise into his hairline. “Poor Freckles.”

Shrugging noncommittally, Tsukishima takes a bite of his pancakes. 

Kuroo hums as is if contemplating his next words. “I heard from Kenma that Shrimpy and Grumpy finally got together a year or so ago. That must’ve been brutal to watch.”

Thankful for the change in topic, Tsukishima rolls his eyes. “God, I thought they were annoying before Kageyama got his soul mark. Hinata wouldn’t shut up about destiny and enemies-to-lovers tropes for _months._ It was disgusting watching them dance around each other for so long.”

“I should call Shrimpy.” Kuroo chuckles. “Oh! Speaking of calling, we should exchange phone numbers. Y’know, since we’re _teammates_ now and all.” Kuroo reaches into his pocket and a look of panic crosses his face. He pats his thighs but comes up with nothing. “Shit, must’ve left my phone in the locker room. Hand me your phone, Tsukki. I’ll put my number in.”

Tsukishima can feel his phone weighing heavily in the front pocket of his jeans. Kuroo’s phone number is already saved in his contact list. He received a new phone, the latest model of his old one, as a graduation gift from his parents, but made sure that Kuroo’s phone number transferred over before he checked for anyone else’s information, even Tadashi’s. 

But he can’t for the life of him remember what the name is saved as. 

When Daichi first gave him Kuroo’s number, he saved it under _Kuroo Tetsurou (Nekoma)._ Two weeks later, after Hinata swiped his phone during practice to take dumb selfies with Kageyama in the locker room, Tsukishima changed the name to _Soulmate_ because he knew it would be weird if anyone saw he had Kuroo’s information. He could easily explain away _Soulmate,_ but not _Kuroo Tetsurou._ Three months ago, Tadashi borrowed Tsukishima’s phone when his had died to call his mom to come pick him up. The look on his best friend's face when he read that word was an exact replica of the icy stare from that fight they had in their third year. Tsukishima changed it to _Kuroo (do NOT call)_ the next day. 

But he can’t remember what he’d changed it to when he switched phones last month. 

He thinks it’s _probably_ under _Kuroo_ or something reasonably innocent. If Kuroo sees that Tsukishima already has his number, he could say _Oh, it must have been on some interhigh contact list or something_. 

Tsukishima shrugs and pulls the phone out of his pocket, sliding it across the table. It’s probably fine, he thinks. 

Kuroo swipes it unlocked and taps on the “contacts” app on his home screen, and starts tapping away. He gets five taps in before his grin fades into something different entirely. Tsukishima watches as his whole face falls, Kuroo’s eyes growing wider, wider, wider.

_Shit._

“Um,” Kuroo says quietly, too quietly. His thumbs hover over the screen of Tsukishima’s phone. “Why is my number saved under ‘Soulmate,’ Tsukishima?”

_Shit._

_It was a prank!_

_Hinata or someone probably added it as a joke, haha._

_I never knew whose number that was, Sugawara-san added it forever ago as a joke, haha._

Anything, he could say anything to dig himself out of this hole because his brain is screaming at him _now is not the time, now is not the time, now is not the time, now is not--_

But Kuroo is leaning across the table, reaching his hand out to pull at Tsukishima’s collar, eyes wide as the moon. He pulls aside the fabric of the t-shirt, and his mouth falls open. There’s not a trace of his usual grin on his lips, not a smattering of amusement alight in his eyes. Kuroo breathes out, and he’s so close, his nose is nearly touching Tsukishima’s. “You…” Kuroo’s Adam's apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. “You have my mark.”

Tsukishima knows he should say something, he needs to say something, but that voice inside his head is still shouting _now is not the time, now is not the time, now is not the time._

“We’re soulmates, aren’t we, Tsukishima?” 

_Now is not the time, now is not the time, now is not the time._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Loud snapping yanks Tsukishima back to the present moment. 

Kuroo is staring at him, eyebrow raised, lips upturned in amusement, eyes shining with a small amount of worry. His fingers remain in front of Tsukishima’s face as he says, “Uh, earth to Tsukki? You okay there, bud?”

His phone weighs heavier in his pocket. “I forgot mine in my dorm,” he says lamely. His collarbone burns as he speaks. 

“Damn,” Kuroo mutters. He reaches back into his pocket, this time emerging with a pen. “Do you have any paper? I only have a pen.” He side-eyes the empty napkin dispenser on the table, next to a mostly empty bottle of ketchup and a full salt shaker. “Shitty diner’s gotta be shitty. No napkins.”

Tsukishima sighs, internally gathering himself. He almost, _almost,_ completely fucked up his four-year plan which absolutely does not include Kuroo Tetsurou. He sticks his hand into the pocket not containing his very not-forgotten phone and pulls out a small piece of paper, crumpled and torn at one corner. 

“Bless you,” Kuroo says with the utmost sincerity as he grabs the paper from Tsukishima’s grasp. He sets it on the table, smoothing out the wrinkles. His grin grows twofold. “Ohoho, what do we have here? Who’s this Makoto?”

Tsukishima’s eyes widen as he looks at the piece of paper. It’s the phone number of that girl from his morning lecture. “Late Girl With Coffee.”

“Um, what?”

He didn’t mean to say that out loud. “Nothing, don’t worry about it.” Tsukishima shakes his head and shoves another mouthful of pancake into his mouth. 

But Kuroo is still staring at him, looking like a cat that got the cream. _How fitting._ “You sly dog,” he says lightly, pointing the pen at Tsukishima. He flips the piece of paper over and scribbles something on it before sliding it back to Tsukishima’s side of the booth. “You better text me so I have your number. Otherwise I’ll have to annoy you about it at every practice.”

Tsukishima knows he would, too. He sighs and shoves the paper into his pocket, knowing full well he won’t have to put anything into his phone. 

“Now, let me tell you about all the guys on our team. You might know one of them, he’s from Seijoh. Iwaizumi Hajime? Not all that tall, but arms that could seriously carry the weight of the world, like that one statue…”

~~

Tsukishima sighs as he flings his shirt into the laundry hamper tucked into the corner of his dorm room. He checks the time on his bedside clock. The red numbers glare _22:22_ at him mockingly. 

It’s late, much later than he wanted to get back. 

It’s only day one, and he’s already falling behind on his plans. 

He was going to print out his syllabi for the following day, check all his classes’ pages for last minute announcements, set up his school email forwarding, call his mom, call Tadashi. 

He frowns as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. 

_3 new messages from Tadashi._

_[19:01] >> Just got out of my last class! _ _  
_ _[19:02] >> Did you already make a friend? Are you trying to replace me, Tsukki? ::angry:: _ _  
_ _[19:05] >> Kidding! Call me when you get home ::heart:: _

He knows he has to tell Tadashi. They haven’t talked about the soulmate situation since their fight. The way Tadashi completely shuts down when anyone mentions soulmates makes Tsukishima’s chest hurt. But he knows keeping it from Tadashi is only going to make it worse. 

It could be as simple as _Oh, Kuroo is on the volleyball team. Weird, right?_ and then he could move on. 

(As if Tadashi would let it go.)

Tsukishima doesn’t want to deal with it right now, so he sends a quick message, _just got home, tired. call tmr?_

He runs a hand over his face after he hits send, knowing full well that he’s being an ass about this. 

He should tell Tadashi.

He should tell _Kuroo._

He won’t be able to pass it off as _I forgot what you mark looks like_ with the way Kuroo so obviously flaunted his soul mark at dinner. Is this a regular occurrence? Is Kuroo purposefully torturing him? 

_Does he know?_

Surely not, the only person who knows besides Tsukishima is Tadashi. 

And he intends to keep it that way. 

Sighing, Tsukishima shucks off his jeans. The small piece of paper from earlier flutters out of his pocket and falls on the floor by his feet. He bends down and picks it up, intending to throw it away immediately. But what Kuroo wrote catches his eye. 

_0XX-XXX-XXXX_ _  
_ _\- Kuroo <3 _

He had the audacity to draw a terrible little heart next to his name. 

The bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my notes won't be this long in the future, i swear. i just feel the need to say something, anything right now. if you're ever feeling overwhelmed or you want someone to talk to, please feel free to hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/OedipusOctopus). i totally get that right now is a really really hard time and it's important to use whatever form of privilege you might have to speak for those without the same privilege, but it's also important to take care of yourself. if reading dumb fanfic about dumb anime boys does that for you, i am so happy that i could maybe make your day even a little bit better. please be safe out there, whether you're in the streets or just talking to your shitty racist family members. black lives matter. justice for george floyd, and for every single victim of racist police brutality. 
> 
> i had some other cheeky notes written out, but it doesn't feel right to post them right now. 
> 
> remember, please take care of yourself <3 i love you all, and your support means the world to me. waking up and reading your comments, seeing the kudos y'all left, it makes my day so, so much better. i can only hope the notif of a new chapter does the same for you <3
> 
> i'm hoping to get updates out every 2 weeks ish, but i am working on a few other projects right now so that might slow updates a bit. plus, ngl, the state of the world makes it kind of hard to be creative right now, so that may also make updates a little less frequent.


	3. i know nothing about me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .....listen, this has turned into complete and utter self-indulgence/projecting my own problems onto these idiots/reliving my first year in university vicariously through hot volleyball boys and i'd say i'm sorry, but i'm also so happy with how this chapter turned out, so I can't really ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> this chapter was intended to be longer, but i've been going through a ton of personal stuff lately so writing has kinda been put on the back burner >.< this fic *will* be finished.... eventually. I've already written the ~big confrontation~ and epilogue, so i def see the end of the tunnel!! writing is and always has been an escape, so i'm hoping to find that lil fire in me to push through the rest of this fic soon!!! follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/OedipusOctopus) for updates~
> 
> a huge THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart for all the kudos and comments!!! seriously, reading all your kind words and waking up to emails with kudos notifications makes my days infinitely better!!!!

The precariously balanced takeout container burns Tsukishima’s thighs and the cheap wooden chopsticks splinter and poke under his index finger. But the food he shovels into his mouth, carried ten minutes across campus, is better than the subpar offerings at his own dormitory’s dining hall. 

(He should thank Kuroo later for the recommendation.  _ Ugh, when I lived there freshman year I couldn’t stand the food. I lived off takeout containers from Maple Hall, the vegan one. _ )

(He pretends not to notice that Kuroo chose to make the suggestion in the form of a personal story, not a direct confrontation— he pretends it doesn’t make his heart hammer in his chest to think that Kuroo already knows him well enough to know that Tsukishima doesn’t take  _ advice. _ )

“Oh my god, Tsukki, tell me about dinner yesterday!” Tadashi’s voice calls out over Tsukishima’s laptop speaker. “I can’t believe you’re already making friends. I’m proud of you.” Tadashi presses a palm against his chest, mimicking the face of a proud father.

Tsukishima scoffs. “It was nothing.” He sees the confused look that crosses Tadashi’s face, watches as his mouth falls open to undoubtedly ask more questions, but Tsukishima interrupts him around a bite of agedashi tofu, “Tell me about your first day.”

“My English professor is the most boring person ever, Tsukki.” Deflection has always been an effective tactic with Tadashi. If it’s because his best friend knows him enough to leave well enough alone, that’s fine. He’ll take the victory as Tadashi continues to prattle on about the tiny, intimidating woman of an english prof he somehow ended up with even though he swears he registered for a section taught by someone else. “...Anyway, tell me how tryouts went!”

This is the chance to say it, to let Tadashi know about Kuroo, but Tadashi is smiling and his cheeks are tinged with pink like they always are when he’s excited, and he’s missed just talking with his best friend. So he’ll hold out for longer. “They were fine.”

Tadashi chuckles in response, scooping up what looks like pho into a spoon. “Of course I’ll have to work harder for a real answer. So, did you make JV?”

He can’t help the smirk that lifts the edges of his lips. “Varsity.” 

“Oh my god, Tsukki, I told you!” 

Tsukishima shrugs. “It’s not that surprising, really.”

“Well, of course not.” Tadashi takes a sip of canned green tea before leaning in closer to the camera. “There have to be some people on the team that we knew from high school. Tell me.”

He knows Tadashi doesn’t know. He knows Tadashi isn’t trying to push any sort of soulmate agenda. He  _ knows. _ But that doesn’t stop the sudden tension from slipping up his spine and grappling his shoulders. Only the styrofoam takeout container in his lap seems to notice. “Iwaizumi Hajime, from Sejoh,” he manages out.

“Oh wow, that’s cool.” Tadashi rests his chin in a cupped hand, grainy through the piss-poor wifi connection of the dorm hall. “It must be hard with Oikawa not there, though.” His voice is wistful even with the awful reverberation of Tsukishima’s laptop speaker. 

“Maybe,” Tsukishima says. 

“No one else?” Tadashi releases his face and sits up. “Even I met someone we knew, and it’s so small here.”

The tension still gripping his posture slides around his neck. “Yeah,” Tsukishima breathes out, “Kuroo.”

Tadashi’s eyes widen and he leans toward the camera. His voice, too, comes out as little more than a forceful breath, “W-what?” 

Tsukishima clears his throat and shifts against the hard back of his university-issued desk chair. He feels the scowl take over his features as he shovels another bite of noodles into his mouth. 

“You should have led with that, Tsukki! Oh my god, this is  _ fate _ —it’s so cute, I can’t—”

“It’s nothing.”

Tsukishima watches as Tadashi’s grin fades, his lips pulling into a thin line. If the quality of the video call weren’t so low, he’s sure he’d see the glimmer in his eyes fade, too. “Oh.”

Sighing, Tsukishima sets his dinner on his desk next to the laptop, appetite fully dissipated, now. “I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want you to get like  _ this. _ ” His words are venomous, more than they need to be, he knows, but he doesn’t want to deal with it right now. Now’s not the time. It’s hard enough to adjust to university—away from his hometown, away from his best friend, away from quiet nights and stars visible in the sky,  _ away. _

“What is  _ ‘this,’ _ Tsukki?”

Tsukshima pinches the bridge of his nose, skewing his glasses. “Can we not talk about this right now?”

It’s quiet for a moment, two, four, ten. “...If that’s what you really want,” Tadashi eventually says, because Tsukishima’s an ass. 

“It is,” Tsukishima says, because he’s an ass. 

Tadashi opens his mouth to say something, closes it, opens it again. The third try, he asks, “Is he who you went to the diner with yesterday?” because Tadashi knows Tsukishima’s an ass. 

“That’s not—”

“I get it.” Tadashi shakes his head, eyes cast downard, maybe to his feet, maybe to his phone on his desk, maybe to the escape key on his keyboard. “Sorry I asked.”

Tsukishima doesn’t say anything, because he’s an ass. 

“You’re going to have to face it eventually, you know. You’re going to be around him a lot, and you’ll share locker rooms—”

“I know, I’m not stupid.” 

“Okay.” Taking a small bite of his own food, Tadashi nods resolutely. “Whenever you’re ready— _ if _ you ever are—you can talk to me about it. Just because…” Tadashi trails off for a moment. His Adam’s apple bobs visibly. “Just because I don’t have a soul mark doesn’t mean I’m not here for you.”

Tsukishima nods tersely, eyes averted from his laptop screen. 

“Okay,” Tadashi says, the monosyllabic word drawn out in soft resignation. “So how are your classes?”

“Fine.”

“How’s your  _ private room _ treating you?”

“Fine.”

The sigh that rushes from Tadashi’s mouth is riddled with quiet frustration. 

He knows—he  _ knows— _ that Tadashi just wants to talk to his best friend, and Tsukishima does, too. Being faced with Kuroo against all odds, against the wildest inclinations that tiny voice inside his head has been whispering in his ear for three years, it’s taken a lot out of him. He’s never been good at handling  _ this  _ stuff, but Tadashi has been nothing but supportive of his inability to process human emotion for nearly their entire lives. He knows all this, and yet Tsukishima doesn’t want to deal with it. But Tsukishima mentioned Kuroo, and how he’s being weird, or maybe Tadashi is being weird—it doesn’t matter who it is being weird, but it makes Tsukishima’s heart clench uncomfortably in his ribcage all the same. 

So he says, “One of my RAs is a little creepy, though,” because he’s tired. 

At this, Tadashi raises an eyebrow, arched perfectly to frame his freckled nose and cheeks. “Oh?”

“He keeps finding me and asking me to go places with him.”

“Oh my god,” Tadashi lets out an exasperated chuckle. “He’s trying to ask you out, you  _ alien.” _

Wrinkling his nose, Tsukishima places his takeout container back in his lap. “Gross, I don’t want to go out with him.”

“Then tell him that, Tsukki.”

“He seems like the type to carry a vendetta.” Tsukishima taps his chopsticks on the side of the styrofoam. “He’d probably write me up for stupid petty violations.”

Tadashi barks out a laugh, sudden and a little off-kilter, and a small piece of tofu flies out of his mouth. “You’re incredible, Tsukki. Never change.”

~~~~~~~~

Kuroo texts Tsukishima. 

Every day. 

Most days, multiple times. 

Even though they saw each other plenty as far as Tsukishima was concerned, Kuroo apparently felt the need to constantly message him. A dumb  _ gm _ with a grumpy cat meme attached before morning practice, a dutch-angle shot heavily filtered and layered with kawaii stickers of whatever lunch entailed for him at exactly 12:17 each day, a picture of an animal-shaped rock he stumbled across on his walk home from evening practice—after the first obligatory  _ this is tsukishima _ text, Kuroo had no qualms bothering Tsukishima at several points throughout the day with unnecessary check-ins, pictures of squirrels dotted around campus,  _ whatever _ . 

It starts on a Thursday. 

_ [20:15] >> (－ω－) zzZ  _ _  
_ _ [20:15] >> thats my day _ _  
_ _ [20:16] >> how was ur day tsukki? (=`ω´=) _ _  
_ _ [20:21] >> ヾ(`ヘ´)ﾉﾞ _ _  
_ _ [20:25] >> i know ur home _ _  
_ _ [20:25] >> [img] _ _  
_ _ [20:26] >> [img] _ _  
_ _ [20:27] >> [img] _ _  
_ _ [20:28] >> [img] _ _  
_ _. _ _  
_ _. _ _  
_ _. _ _  
_ _ [20:42] >> [img] _

_ [20:42] << i was in the shower you absolute imbecile _ _  
_ _ [20:42] << i never wanted to see the inside of your nostrils _

_ [20:43] >> tsukki!!!! _ _  
_ _ [20:43] >> (* ^ ω ^) _ _  
_ _ [20:44] >> ur day? _

_ [20:45] << you just saw me an hour ago _ _  
_ _ [20:45] << nothing has changed _

_ [20:45] >> (￢_￢;) _

_ [20:46] << what does that even mean _

_ [20:46] >> (︶︹︺) _

_ [20:47] << i’m going to stop responding _

_ [20:47] >> ∑(O_O;) _ _  
_ _ [20:47] >> kaomoji only  _

_ [20:48] << this is stupid _

_ [20:48] >> ☆⌒(> _ <) _ _  
_ _ [20:49] >> (ﾒ` ﾛ ´) _ _  
_ _ [20:50] >> ｡･ﾟﾟ*(>д<)*ﾟﾟ･｡ _ _  
_ _ [20:50] >> (╥﹏╥) _ _  
_ _ [20:51] >> ┐( ˘_˘ )┌ _

_ [20:52] << …. _ _  
_ _ [20:52] << are those the five stages of grief _

_ [20:52] >> <(￣︶￣)> _

_ [20:52] << the japanese language has evolved over thousands of years _ _  
_ _ [20:53] << literal history at your disposal _ _  
_ _ [20:53] << and this is what you choose to type _

_ [20:54] >> (✧ω✧) _ _  
_ _ [20:54] >> KAOMOJI ONLY _

_ [20:58] << (凸ಠ益ಠ)凸 _

_ [20:58] >> what a weak comeback for 4 mins _

_ [20:59] << i had to look them up _

_ [21:00] >> ur precious _

~~

Tsukishima downloaded a kaomoji keyboard extension two days later. 

~~~~~~~~~

He returns to his room in sweat-sticky clothes, grimy and exhausted after the first evening practice of the semester. He hadn’t the energy to figure out a way to hide his soulmark from the team, not yet, so he excused himself from the locker room after their captain gave them a  _ we’ll kill it this season, guys! _ post-practice pep talk in nothing but a thin white towel wrapped around his hips haphazardly. He’d felt Kuroo’s heavy gaze on him from where he sat next to Iwaizumi on the locker room bench, not for the first time that evening. 

As he retrieves his key from his pocket, he sees a hastily-taped sign made of printer paper on his door. 

_ Congrats on varsity! _ is written in red Sharpie. A poorly-drawn volleyball that looks more like a colorful soccer ball stamps each of the four corners. 

Tsukishima frowns. 

“Hey!” 

Heavy footfalls signal someone approaching from his left and he barely represses the urge to slam his head into the door. He’d almost made it inside without incident.  _ Almost. _ Tsukishima turns his head slightly to glare at whomever decided to be yet another roadblock in his path to inner peace. 

Saito, of course. 

The grin on Saito’s face takes up nearly his whole face. His cheeks are flushed a slight pink and his breaths come a little harshly, as if he ran to meet Tsukishima at his door. A not-at-all-coincidental coincidental meeting, probably. Tsukishima thinks back to what Tadashi said in their video call yesterday. 

_ He’s trying to ask you out, you alien! _

“My friend on the volleyball team—I mean, you’ve probably met him by now. Kuroo?” Saito pauses, eyebrow raised as if waiting for Tsukishima to respond. He doesn’t, but only because Saito steamrolls over the silence immediately. “Anyway, he wouldn’t shut up yesterday at our group study session about this freshman who made the varsity team, and when he described how tall and blonde and skinny this guy was, I thought, ‘Oh my god, that’s Tsukishima!’ So of course, I had to congratulate you!”

“Of course,” Tsukishima echoes. Saito opens his mouth to say something else, but Tsukishima’s traitorous mouth spills out, “Kuroo-san talked about me?”

Saito chuckles, eyes crinkling, and rests a hand on Tsukishima’s upper arm lightly. Casually. “Well, he was more bragging than talking, but yeah. He said you two were close in high school.”

The mark on his clavicle burns. He instinctively reaches up, brushing his fingertips over the mark through the fabric of his practice shirt. Saito’s eyes narrow slightly as they track the movement, and Tsukishima quickly drops his hand back to his side. “Yes, well, he has a habit of over exaggerating.” He hopes his voice comes out as sardonic as he wants it to.

Saito’s eyes remain trained on Tsukishima’s shoulder even as they widen from suspicious slits to unreasonably wide saucers. “Oh. Yeah. He does, I guess.” He clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck, shifting his weight from foot to foot awkwardly. “A-anyway, I gotta go. See ya, Tsukishima.”

Tsukishima watches as Saito trudges down the hall. He cocks his head curiously as Saito stops at the junction of his room and the next wing, sighs, and then slams his forehead into the wooden door. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

They win games, a lot of them. 

Most of them. 

Tsukishima doesn’t start, but that’s fine. He knows Kuroo has seniority, but whether or not he is actually more capable than Tsukishima—well.

It’s not terrible, being put in during the second match to give Kuroo a break or if Coach Harada decides to run a synched attack that Kuroo for some reason can’t wrap his brain around. If they play best of five, Tsukishima is usually subbed in for the last two matches in their entirety. 

It’s great, the first game Coach Harada lets him start. It’s in June, during a skirmish match against their rivals. 

_ To scare them, _ she said. 

Tsukishima gets to see Kuroo stick out his lower lip in a pout, fingers rubbing the hem of his shorts as he awaits for his turn on the court. 

It’s not cute, but it’s close.

~~~~~~~~~~

He’s never been much of a coffee drinker, preferring a strong green tea in the mornings and as an afternoon pick-me-up before practice. 

But midterms change everything. 

The dining hall coffee is absolutely atrocious and leaves a gross oily film in his mouth for hours after breakfast. The diner Kuroo took him to isn’t a reasonable choice for his twice (sometimes thrice) daily cup. The fancy coffee joint in the building of his first morning class doesn’t take his dining plan flex dollars, and paying 400 yen for a 12 oz drip is ridiculous, but it’s the only coffee he’s able to stomach without having to walk 20 minutes out of his way. 

_ “Oh my gosh, I love Blue Chip’s coffee! I think it’s way too expensive though, so I usually go to Perugia in the business building on my way here,”  _ Late Girl With Coffee said to him last week, between pops of her bubblegum. 

Which is how Tsukishima finds himself standing in front of six large, stainless steel coffee dispensers with various labels velcroed onto their spigots, empty paper cup in hand. One of them is decaf, an instant no. The others are from five countries he couldn’t confidently point out on a map. But more astounding than the number of roast choices is the four—four!—pumps of flavoured syrups next to the coffee pots. 

“Can’t decide?” 

The familiar voice behind him sends his collarbone aflame. The sensation is becoming entirely too expected,  _ normal _ , by now. 

Tsukishima turns his head to see Kuroo walking up, unscrewing the lid of his travel mug. “I don’t like coffee.” He turns his gaze back to the coffee pots and sends them a withering glare. “I didn’t used to, anyway.”

A chuckle spills out of Kuroo’s mouth and Tsukishima thinks for a moment that he could probably go the rest of the day without any caffeine. “Midterms will do that to you.” Kuroo hums appreciatively as he reaches in front of Tsukishima to fill his mug— _ Colombian, medium roast with hints of blueberry and notes of orange zest. _ “College, really, will change you.” He sends a wink over his shoulder, grabbing the sugar canister and holding it nearly vertical over his steaming coffee for one, two, three entire seconds. 

Tsukishima watches, rapt, as Kuroo squirts three pumps of vanilla syrup into his concoction, after adding all that sugar. “Do  _ you _ like coffee?” 

That awful hyena cackle is let loose from Kuroo’s throat. It echoes obscenely in the tiny coffee shop, making the worker behind the register narrow her eyes in their direction. Kuroo continues laughing—if you could call it that—with an arm thrown over his stomach. When he finally calms down, the sound dying into a few giggles, Kuroo shakes his head and screws the lid back onto his mug. “No, I guess I really don’t.” 

Tsukishima tamps down the chuckle threatening to escape his own mouth at the ridiculous display. How Kuroo doesn’t die of embarrassment every time he laughs, Tsukishima doesn’t know.

Kuroo’s eyes dart down to the paper cup, still empty, in Tsukishima’s hands. “The Kona roast is the most subtle. But if you want something flavoured, the Colombian roast is my favourite. Could be a little biased, though.”

“Biased?”

“I spent a semester abroad in Colombia during my second year.” Kuroo’s stare goes distant, wistful. “I had the best time.”

“Do you even speak Spanish?” 

Kuroo’s lips curl into a self-satisfied smirk, and Tsukishima can’t help but think that it suits him, even at this god awful hour in the morning. “Eh, enough to get by. It was way easier to learn than French was, though.” Sweeping a stray lock of hair from his eyes, he sighs dramatically. “Nothing will be as bad as English though. It’s the absolute  _ worst. _ ”

Tsukishima fiddles with the plastic cup lid in his hands, fingers sliding along the rigid edge. He clears his throat as Kuroo continues to stare at him, glint of something—something sparkly and dangerous and a little smug—in his dark, dark eyes. “How many languages do you speak?” The words sound lame leaving his mouth, but he doesn’t know what else to say and Kuroo keeps  _ looking at him _ and he hasn’t had his morning coffee yet so nothing really makes sense.

The curl of Kuroo’s lips grow a little feral, and the tight feeling in Tsukishima’s chest has nothing to do with the way Kuroo cocks his hip to lean against the counter in front of them. “Technically four.”

“Technically.” 

It’s not a question, but Kuroo responds in kind, “Conversationally, seven. Ish.”

Tsukishima doesn’t know what face he’s making, but Kuroo’s grin only grows by the milimeter. “How does one learn seven languages?”

Kuroo waves his hand airily. “My parents moved around a lot when I was little.”

“Moved around…” Tsukishima narrows his eyes, mentally trying to picture where they possibly could have moved to that would necessitate knowing  _ seven languages. _

The sound of someone clearing their throat behind him makes Tsukishima jump slightly. He peeks over his shoulder to see that, yes, he and Kuroo have indeed been blocking access to the life-giving caffeine water for far too long. He bows slightly, quickly, in apology before turning back to the coffee dispensers. Without much of a thought, he fills his cup with the Colombian roast, snaps a plastic lid over the rim, and nods once more to the girl giving him the stink eye for holding up the line. 

“Do you have class now?” Kuroo asks as Tsukishima steps away from the counter, falling in step beside him. 

Tsukishima shakes his head and takes a sip of the coffee. It’s a little strong for his liking, but the subtle sweetness of fruity undertones cuts through the bitterness nicely. “Not for an hour.”

“Great.” Kuroo nudges Tuskishima’s arm with his elbow. Tsukishima shifts his gaze to his right to observe as Kuroo’s smile slides into something radiant, albeit a little slippery. Out of reach, not unlike the sun setting behind the horizon. “You can walk me to my class while I tell you all about my infantile adventures traipsing across Europe.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There's a corner shower stall tucked away from the others, below a lightbulb that constantly flickers out. The locker he's assigned to is shoved between the water fountain and the door leading from the locker space to the showers. Under normal circumstances—impending untimely soulmate bonding notwithstanding—Tsukishima would have been satisfied with being able to distance himself from his teammates, albeit a smidge annoyed at the absolute misfortune of only having two square feet to change out of his clothes. But as it were, he’s positively elated. 

Kuroo’s locker is on the other side of the room. The only players around Tsukishima are the other first years, who don’t know him or Kuroo (or anyone else, really) well enough to be able to connect the dots between the soul mark positioned in the exact same place as Kuroo’s. 

It’s a little bit perfect, and a little bit infuriating. 

~~~~~~~~~~

_ [22:47] >> o(TヘTo) _

_ [22:47] << (๑-﹏-๑) _ _  
_ _ [22:48] << did you actually cry today or are you being overdramatic? _

_ [22:48] >> tsukki!!! _ _  
_ _ [22:49] >> i’m *never* overdramatic, how dare u? _ _  
_ _ [22:49] >> for ur info, i cried legit tears when harada told us u r too sick to practice _

_ [22:51] << shut up _ _  
_ _ [22:52] << you did not cry in front of the entire team _

_ [22:53] >> [img] _

_ [22:54] << that looks an awful lot like the locker room, not the gym _

_ [22:54] >> (っ˘̩╭╮˘̩)っ _ __  
_ [22:55] >> i had to excuse myself in the middle of practice _ _  
_ __ [22:56] >> all bc of u

If his limbs didn’t feel like jelly laden with acetaminophen and too much ginger tea, Tsukishima would grip the front of his shirt in a vain attempt to still his traitorously rapidly beating heart.

~~~~~~~~~~

Kuroo invites Tsukishima over to his apartment under the guise of a “Third Gym Gang Reunion.” It happens on a Saturday night, because Sunday is the only day of the week volleyball practice doesn’t happen during the season. 

(He’s not sure how Bokuto manages to get an entire weekend off from his own division 1 practices in the  _ middle of the season _ , but Tsukishima doesn’t question it.)

The first thing he notices about the apartment is the ugly, obviously handmade welcome mat outside the door that reads  _ Welcome, Cool Cat _ with what he thinks is supposed to be the woman-yelling-at-cat meme cat painted in the corner. The scratched name plaque screwed to the door catches his eye after he stares at the doormat for ten seconds too long. Neat, careful characters spell out  _ Kuroo & Kozume _ . 

_ Shit. _

He’s never given much thought to why someone doesn’t like him. It’s never bothered him. He knows he’s a dick, an outright asshole, and he doesn’t care, not really. But usually he has to say something to someone before they get that displeased look on their face when they catch Tsukishima’s eye. 

Not Kenma. 

While he’s frowning down at the terrible doormat, the door opens. Tsukishima tears his gaze from the thing and sees Kuroo, dressed casually in skinny jeans and a faded band t-shirt, the logo not visible because it’s hidden behind a frilly lavender apron tied around his waist. Tsukishima wants to laugh at the ridiculous thing covered in floral print and lined with lace, but Kuroo’s completely confident smile devoid of any traces of embarrassment knocks the air out of his lungs. 

At least his bedhead still looks stupid, perched like a disheveled rooster atop the crown of his head. 

“My Tsukki senses were tingling, so of course I had to come rushing to greet you.”

Tsukishima scoffs, shifting his weight from his left foot to his right.

Kuroo’s smile grows a fraction of an inch wider. “C’mon, dinner is almost ready.” He steps aside and gestures openly with his arm, inviting Tsukishima into the apartment. As Tsukishima steps through the threshold and into the genkan, Kuroo leans into his space to not-so-quietly whisper into his ear, “Fair warning, Bokuto is already a little drunk.”

“Are you talking shit about me, bro?!” an all too-familiar voice booms through the entryway. 

Tsukishima spares a glance at Kuroo’s face. Kuroo shrugs and his smile turns sheepish as he closes the door behind him with a definitive click.

He’s here now, no turning back. 

He sees Kuroo’s eyes drop to Tsukishima’s hand, his own reaching out a few inches before it returns to his side limply. “Everyone is in the kitchen.” Kuroo turns and walks through the hall, Tsukishima trailing behind him. 

“Your doormat is atrocious,” Tsukishima says to his back as they make their way further into the apartment. 

Kuroo turns to look over his shoulder, stupid grin on his face. “Isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no justice, no peace, abolish the police. black lives matter. arrest the cops who murdered Breonna Taylor. 
> 
> also wear a FUCKING MASK.
> 
> stay safe, stay angry, stay LOUD babes <3


	4. thought i could take this to my grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He trails his fingers over the deep red ink, relishing in the warmth it seems to radiate, not unlike the oppressive heat of summer itself. It’s almost July, and this third week of June has brought with it a heat wave that’s had the entire team complaining about how far the gym is from the centre of campus. But as he touches his soulmark, _summer_ , the thing that connects him to Kuroo in a way that he spends most of his time wishing isn’t real, he thinks that the blazing summer sun has nothing of the seeming fire that burns under his fingertips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so..................... i tentatively put the chapter total to 7....................... 
> 
> i got so many comments last chapter about the impending tsukki/kenma interactions so i really really hope it came out to meet everyone's expectations! I wasn't expecting such a big response to that scene so uhhhh ngl i felt the pressure while writing it >.<
> 
> BIG BIG BIG THANK YOU to everyone who left comments and kudos on the last chapter!! i know my updates have been pretty slow, but i've been working on some other projects ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) and i recently moved across the country to start grad school, so i've been hella busy! i can't express my gratitude for everyone who has stuck around!!! <3 i can't promise when the next update will be, but i DEFINITELY have NOT abandoned this story!!!
> 
> chapter title from [skinny dipping](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vqx3f18MuFc) by [stand atlantic](https://open.spotify.com/artist/1W2Fv4YUnjC8hx2qQd6fGh?si=ib63U69oSMe0YeNx_Wfblg) as per usual! enjoy!!!

Locker room talk isn’t real, not like the movies. 

Sometimes, maybe, there are a dozen sweaty dudes in desperate need of a shower clamoring about the hot girl so-and-so on the girl’s soccer team, but it’s not often. Usually everyone is talking about some nerdy thing, like the latest episode of the newest shounen airing on Saturday mornings. 

_ Weekend practice gets in the way of my precious anime time, bro.  _

_ Bro, tell me about it.  _

On occasion, when someone is out of practice for some reason or another, the gossip permeates the air, thicker than the steam from the shower stalls. 

Though Kuroo himself isn’t in the locker rooms today because of a particularly brutal spring head cold, Tsukishima still faces the wall as he strips out of his practice shirt. 

“Man, why doesn’t Kuroo invite us to parties anymore?” the second string varsity setter whines and throws himself dramatically into the bench next to his locker. 

One of the wing spikers sighs, exasperated. “I know, dude. And, like, I haven’t seen him with anyone in months. It’s fucking weird.”

“I can’t live vicariously through his ridiculous sex life anymore.” The setter groans, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “I wonder what happened, though. Like, the new semester started and his weekly conquests disappeared completely.”

He shouldn’t be listening, he shouldn’t care, he shouldn’t say anything, but still the words slip from his mouth, too somber for the mood, “‘Weekly conquests?’” Tsukishima shrugs on an old Karasuno practice shirt so that it covers his soulmark as he turns to face his two upperclassmen. 

The wing spiker smirks and settles a hand on his hip. “Oh yeah, I guess you’re too new to have witnessed it. But Kuroo is, like, a legend. He always knows where all the best parties are happening and hooks us all up.”

“And then  _ he _ hooks up at the parties, if you catch my drift.” The setter waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Chicks and dudes both, like, line up to be with him. It’s crazy.”

“I still think it’s because he’s so tall.”

“And that  _ hair. _ Chicks dig the messy hair, man.”

“Ooh,” the wing spiker breathes out as his lips curl into a sinister smirk, feral, “Kuroo might have a run for his money, then. Tsukishima-kun here is even taller and has that curly mop, y’know.” 

Truthfully, Tsukishima doesn’t know what to do with this information. Kuroo had told him at the diner that he’s  _ done with the games _ . These ‘weekly conquests’ must be the games he was talking about, then. 

Tsukishima ignores the hot brand pushing into his clavicle. 

His two teammates are still looking at him expectantly, so Tsukishima scoffs and reaches into his locker to pull out his backpack. “I don’t have time for any of that.”

The setter outright cackles and the wing spiker chuckles ruefully. “The hot ones always squander their chances. What a shame.”

~~~~~~~~~

Tsukishima realizes three things in the span of twenty minutes:

  1. Bokuto is a touchy drunk. 
  2. Kenma still has some personal vendetta against Tsukishima. 
  3. Kuroo is an excellent cook.



Upon rounding the corner into the kitchen, Tsukishima finds himself enveloped in a set of ridiculously strong arms clutching at his back, his neck, his cheek, his  _ ass. _ Tsukishima didn’t think they were particularly close, but with the way Akaashi is looking across the island with a disgustingly fond look in his eye, Tuskishima thinks that he might have underestimated how seriously these three took their impromptu extra training sessions all those years ago. 

Wetness seeps into Tsukishima’s collarbone through his t-shirt as Bokuto literally weeps out of joy of seeing his ‘sweet moonchild’ after so long, and Tsukishima wishes he could time travel if only to slap three-days-ago Tsukishima for agreeing to such an arrangement. 

Kuroo is of absolutely no help during the whole ordeal. He simply slides past the public display of misplaced affection to his post at the stove and begins pushing around whatever is sizzling away in the cast iron skillet, the stupid, stupid grin on his face visible even through the veil of Bokuto’s ridiculous hairdo. 

And Akaashi, the jerk, mouths  _ I’m sorry _ and shakes his head, but doesn’t bother telling Bokuto to  _ heel _ . 

Unsurprisingly, Kenma has not moved from his seated position at the opposite end of the island. The video game console in his hands flashes once, twice, three times, but he’s still glaring icy daggers at Tsukishima. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, and Tsukishima is the most thankful for him at this moment. Unfortunately. 

“Bo, let him go so he can come try chef Kuroo’s delicate cuisine.”

Bokuto lets out a gnarly sniffle, snotty and  _ wet _ , into the collar of Tsukishima’s shirt. He rubs his nose along the fabric, no doubt leaving behind mucus that Tsukishima will have to use an extra detergent pod to get out in the wash. “Bro, I missed him so much,” he practically whimpers. 

“You’re just drunk,” Tsukishima says and pushes Bokuto away from his neck. Well, he tries, anyway, but Bokuto’s grip is intense, okay? He’s a professional volleyball player, there’s no way Tsukishima could be expected to be able to push him away.

Face not betraying any particular emotion, Akaashi gently shakes his head once more. “No, he’s been so excited to see you again it’s all he could talk about for the last two weeks.”

“Joy.”

~~

Dinner is an absolute feast of white rice, fried eggs, whatever the hell chorizo sausage is, and fried dough balls topped with cheese that leave an oily sheen on Tsukishima’s fingers. Kuroo says something about the dish being a ‘Colombian national treasure,’ but it’s hard to hear him over the intense thrumming of Tsukishima’s heart beating a thousand miles a minute.

Because Kuroo has decided the perfect resting place for his ankle is hooked around Tsukishima’s calf. 

The first bite of food he takes is immaculate, easily one of the best things Tsukishima has ever had the express pleasure of eating. Maybe it’s because they’ve only ever eaten together at the shitty diner (really, the food isn’t  _ that  _ bad, but there’s not a better word to describe the grease-laden breakfast foods stacked high on chipped plates) that seeded the idea that Kuroo doesn’t know how to cook in Tsukishima’s brain. 

But the momentary high of tasting such well-seasoned meat is quelled the moment Tsukishima feels a socked foot prod against his shin under the table. 

At first, he brushes it off as an accident. But then Kuroo wiggles his damn toes against the denim of Tsukishima's jeans, like a child playing footsies with the new girl in class. 

Taking a slow sip of his drink—some juice and rum concoction that will surely leave him dehydrated at 3 am—Tsukishima dares a glance at Kuroo sitting at his right. Like he anticipates, Kuroo is still blabbering away at an intoxicated Bokuto about the process of  _ perfectly marinating the meat, bro _ with a blinding smirk spread across his lips. Not a single trace of mischief, not a shred of embarrassment for playing literal footsies with a literal adult at a table of his friends. 

Ridiculous. 

(The truly ridiculous thing, a voice in the back of Tsukishima's mind reminds him, is how the action spikes his heart rate, makes the blood underneath his skin catch fire. It's just a damn  _ foot.) _

Tsukishima lifts his gaze from his nearly empty plate and accidentally meets the steely eyes of Kenma from across the table. 

Neither of them move, neither of them look elsewhere, even as the rest of the table clamors, even as the sound of forks scraping against plates rings nearly deafening. 

"So, movie?"

By the grace of whatever deity, Kuroo’s voice cuts cleanly through the tension lingering between Kenma and Tsukishima—the tension of unknown origin, as far as Tsukishima is concerned. 

“Hell yeah! Something with lots of explosions, bro!” 

Maintaining eye contact with Kenma, Tsukishima stands. “I’ll clean up while you set up the movie.”

“Absolutely not, you’re a guest. I’ll take care of the dishes after everyone is gone, anyway,” Kuroo says, also standing. 

Tsukishima breaks the staring contest with Kenma to side eye Kuroo. “At least let me clear the plates.”

Kuroo sighs, relenting. “Fine. Help me pack up the leftovers, then, if it’ll satisfy your fragile sensibilities.”

Tsukishima sees Bokuto give Akaashi a look that's probably intended to be subtle but on his overly expressive face is anything but. He watches Akaashi give an  _ actually  _ subtle nod in response. 

“I’m not sure where the movies are. Could you help us, Kenma?” 

Kuroo is already carrying a stack of plates to the kitchen when Akaashi looks over at Tsukishima and  _ winks. _

~~

Somehow—though, guessing by the positively overjoyed look on his face, Bokuto probably has something to do with it—Tsukishima finds himself squished between Kuroo’s stupidly muscled thighs and the smooth velour of the couch armrest. On the other end of the couch that’s frankly too small for three men is Kenma, curled up with his PSP clutched between his fingers. Bokuto and Akaashi are squashed together on the armchair to the left of the couch. 

The popcorn in his lap burns the tops of his thighs a little bit, but he’ll take the grounding sensation if it means he doesn’t have to think about how Kuroo keeps prodding Tsukishima’s foot with his own. 

God, he’s a grown ass man, can’t he do anything better than fucking  _ footsies? _

(A traitorous voice in his head reminds him that Tsukishima is very aware that Kuroo can, in fact,  _ do better. _ )

It’s around the half hour mark into the Godzilla sequel—he can’t remember which one, they’re all the same to him—that there’s a pause in the action, and a wet, smacking sound fills in the momentary quiet. 

“Ugh,” Kuroo sneers. He reaches to grab a fistful of popcorn from the bowl in Tsukishima’s lap and throws the pieces in Bokuto and Akaashi’s general direction, earning an indignant squawk from (presumably) Bokuto. “Stop being horny for literally two hours.”

Bokuto says something in response, his voice too loud, and there’s some back and forth between him and Kuroo, but Kenma leans forward to give Tsukishima a long look over Kuroo’s shoulder. His eyes aren’t as steely as before, his gaze not as icy, but they’re still hardened with some animosity that Tsukishima still doesn’t know what he did to deserve. Kenma’s eyes flicker to Kuroo’s face, then back to Tsukishima, and then he stands abruptly, effectively shutting up the bickering bros. Without a word, Kenma stalks off to his room and closes the door behind him quietly, but with a finality that rings loudly in the subsequent silence. 

Kuroo huffs, falling back into the couch cushions forcefully. “See, you made Kenma uncomfortable.” He stuffs a handful of popcorn in his mouth and dutifully rewinds the movie a few frames, as if filling in the missing plot will also fill in the empty spot on the couch. 

~~

In line with the trajectory of the night, just as the final action scene is about to reach its excruciatingly loud crescendo, Tsukishima spills the remnants of his soda all over himself like he’s never taken a drink from a damn cup before. 

“Shit,” he mutters, standing from the couch. He sets down his now empty cup and sighs heavily. 

Kuroo lets out a low whistle. “Damn, you really did a number on yourself. I’ll grab you a shirt so you don’t have to sit in that sticky mess all night.” Before Tsukishima can respond, he’s walking down one of the hallways past the kitchen. 

Akaashi pauses the movie and says, “The bathroom is just down this hall, to the left.”

Nodding his thanks, Tsukishima makes his way to the aforementioned restroom. He pulls the door shut behind him. He looks at the door for a second and then pushes it back open slightly, eyebrows furrowed as he takes in the extent of the damage done to his poor, defenseless white t-shirt. 

He curses himself for not taking up his mom’s advice to pick up extra stain-removing laundry detergent. 

He runs his fingers along the damp hem, contemplating the merits of taking the stupid thing off now and letting Kuroo walk in on him shirtless. It’s tactless, probably the worst way he could reveal their soulmate connection. But it would be fast, like ripping off a bandaid. Painful, but necessary. And then at least he wouldn’t have to tiptoe around the entire team after every practice. 

Ultimately, it would be for the best if he just got it over with. 

Right? 

Before Tsukishima can lift the offending shirt over his head, the door opens to reveal Kuroo holding a deep maroon shirt in his hands. 

Grinning sheepishly, Kuroo holds out the clothing for Tsukishima to take. “It might be a bit big on you, but it should work.” 

Nodding, Tsukishima takes the offered shirt. “Thanks. Sorry for the trouble.”

“It’s not a problem.” Kuroo’s grin turns feral, just a little. “A little surprised someone as graceful as you would spill all over himself like a toddler, but y’know.”

Tsukishima shoves at Kuroo’s shoulder, pushing him back through the threshold. “Don’t be an ass.” He slams the door in Kuroo’s face. 

Tsukishima’s frown grows deeper as Kuroo fucking  _ chuckles _ . “I like it when you’re rough with me, Tsukki~”

He waits until he hears footsteps recede to slip his wet, sticky shirt over his head with a grimace. He sighs, grabbing a washcloth from the towel rack and running it under the sink. He dabs at his bare chest to rid himself of the sugary residue clinging to his skin. 

His eyes catch his soulmark in the mirror, and his hand stills. 

He trails his fingers over the deep red ink, relishing in the warmth it seems to radiate, not unlike the oppressive heat of summer itself. It’s almost July, and this third week of June has brought with it a heat wave that’s had the entire team complaining about how far the gym is from the centre of campus. But as he touches his soulmark,  _ summer _ , the thing that connects him to Kuroo in a way that he spends most of his time wishing isn’t real, he thinks that the blazing summer sun has nothing of the seeming fire that burns under his fingertips. 

The time to be sentimental about the situation is cut short when the door opens without warning. 

Tsukishima’s head whips over and of course,  _ of course _ , he’s met with the amber eyes of none other than Kenma. 

Hand still gripped around the door handle, Kenma’s eyes raise from the floor to scan over Tsukishima’s legs, stomach, chest, and  _ oh _ , there it is. 

Eventually his sharp gaze lands on the maroon kanji stamped onto Tsukishima’s clavicle. 

Other than a slight widening of eyes, Kenma’s face doesn’t change at all as the silence stretches between them for far too long. Tuksishima’s fingers itch to put on the shirt sitting on the counter. 

“You haven’t told him.”

It’s not a question, but Tsukishima is tired of being given these stupid, open-ended sentences, so he says, “I haven’t.”

Kenma is quiet for a while. He doesn’t let go of the door handle, just stays standing there in the middle of the doorway. “Is it because you two fucked in a closet in high school?”

“What.” Tsukishima shakes his head. “Of course not.”

“You think he messes around.”

Not deigning that with a response, Tsukishima shucks the shirt over his head. He’s barely able to withhold the scowl when he realizes the damn thing has  _ Nekoma High School Volleyball Club _ emblazoned across the front. 

Kenma doesn’t seem to notice. “He has, in the past.” The brat probably doesn’t care, anyway. “You’re worried it would continue even if you did tell him.”

Tsukishima wrings out the washcloth he’d used to dab away the soda remains. 

“He wouldn’t, you know.”

The cloth makes a sickening  _ slap _ as Tsukishima flings it into the bathtub. He turns to face Kenma fully. “You’re a little biased, don’t you think?”

Kenma’s mouth falls into a thin line, tense. “You owe it to him.”

“I owe him  _ nothing, _ ” Tsukishima all but snarls. 

“He spends every summer hopeful.”

“It’s not my fault he’s so keen.”

Kenma pins him in place with how hard his stare turns. “It really is.” The blonde turns away, letting the door fall shut behind him. 

Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. 

Tsukishima runs his hand over his face, leaving finger smudges all over his glasses. He can’t find it in himself to care because soon after he’s pushing through the door, storming past the living room straight to the genkan.

“Woah, hey, what’s up?” Kuroo calls after him, standing from his spot on the couch. 

Tsukishima doesn’t so much as look over his shoulder. “Something came up. I have to go.”

“Wait, is everything okay?” Kuroo rushes out of the living room to stand at the edge of the genkan. 

“Peachy,” Tsukishima says, even as the soulmark beneath Kuroo’s shirt feels like it’s vibrating against his collarbone. “I’ll see you at practice on Monday.”

And, because he’s an absolute fucking coward, he leaves.

~~~~~~~~~~

It must be the strict diet, or maybe the ever stricter training schedule for the tournament that makes Tsukishima careless. 

Surely. 

He truthfully thought he was the last one in the gym, really. As the only freshman on the team, the guys often left him to finish up the last few things before leaving after evening practice. Every day for the last two weeks he’s been the only person in the locker room this time of night, he reasons, so taking off his shirt and lingering to check his missed texts from Tadashi before heading into the shower stall is harmless, he tells himself.

Stupidly. 

The sharp sound of breath rushing through clenched teeth isn’t the worst sound that could reach his ears at the moment—a loud  _ oh my god _ or maybe a  _ holy fuck, Tsukishima! _ would be much, much worse, he has to tell himself as his head snaps up toward the intruder in the doorway. 

Iwaizumi Hajime’s eyes are glued to the maroon mark imprinted into Tsukishima’s collarbone. His jaw is clenched, lips parted slightly, but nothing else gives away his thoughts as his gaze eventually travels up Tsukishima’s neck, over his cheeks, and finally landing on amber eyes widened in shock. 

They maintain eye contact but make no sound. Tsukishima feels the air get stuck in his lungs as if his bronchioles have been replaced by fly tape. He watches as Iwaizumi’s chest rises, falls, once, twice, three times. 

Stepping toward his locker not three paces from Tsukishima’s, Iwaizumi simply nods in acknowledgement of his presence. He quickly spins through his lock combination, reaches in to grab his team jacket, and slams the metal door closed resolutely without saying another word, or even looking in Tsukishima’s direction. 

And then he’s gone, and Tsukishima is alone with his phone gripped too tight in his too-sweaty palms. 

~~

Tsukishima is starting to think the team will use any win as an excuse to throw a party. He can’t imagine Harada would appreciate them drinking high-calorie beers and eating even higher-calorie slices of pizza for nothing except the thrill of it, but a post-win celebration would probably be hard for even the stoic coach to deny them. 

There’s a daunting feeling crawling up the back of his neck at the prospect of making an idiot of himself at one of these gatherings.

He can’t help the scowl that crosses his features as he watches six fully grown men struggle to set up a water volleyball net across the choppy waves of the pool situated in the yard Tsukishima finds himself unfortunate enough to be in right now. The beer on his tongue is sour and leaves behind an illicit aftertaste that coats the roof of his mouth. 

He’s already been hounded by that second-string setter about leaving his shirt on while the rest of the team runs around with nothing on their backs but the heat of the mid-summer sun.  _ We already know you’ve got a rockin’ bod, we share a locker room, dude! No need to be shy! _

(The drop of disappointment that nestled into his belly as Kuroo simply shrugged and smiled sheepishly in his defense meant nothing.)

As his teammates have finally gotten the water volley net set up, none other than Iwaizumi Hajime steps into the shaded area Tsukishima has made his temporary home. Iwaizumi nods at Tsukishima and pops open a bottle of beer. He offers an unopened one to Tsukishima. Shaking his head, Tsukishima lifts his red plastic cup into the air in a half-hearted cheers-slash-explanation. 

Iwaizumi takes a silent sip, and Tsukishima turns his attention back to the grown men splashing around in a pool like they’re a bunch of twelve year olds at their first chaperone-free party. 

Several moments pass with no words between the two, but eventually Iwaizumi breaks the quiet moment. “Oikawa refused to show me his soul mark for two months.”

And,  _ fuck _ , of course Iwaizumi isn’t going to just let it go. His upperclassman had gone practically the entire semester without a word of unnecessary conversation between them—a blessing in Tsukishima’s eyes, really, why is the whole team so chatty?—but  _ this _ is what he chooses to speak to Tsukishima about. 

Iwaizumi hasn’t taken his eyes off the brutal match of water-logged volleyball happening in the pool a few meters away from them, but he hasn’t said anything else, either. 

Tsukishima lifts his cup to his lips and mutters out a low, “That sucks for you,” before taking an exaggeratedly large gulp of beer that doesn’t slide down his throat smoothly at all. 

“He was quiet a lot, a damn miracle for that annoying shit.” Iwaizumi chuckles mirthlessly and takes a sip of his drink. “He thought I would be upset that I was stuck with him.”

Snorting, Tsukishima rubs his thumb along the rim of his cup. “That’s stupid. From what I’ve heard, you two have been attached at the hip forever, even before the soul mark.”

“It pissed me off.”

Tsukishima quirks an eyebrow, but Iwaizumi isn’t looking at him, anyway. 

“Not that I would be… stuck with him, or whatever. But because he didn’t have the balls to tell me.”

It’s all Tsukishima can do to grit his teeth, clench his jaw, flex his fingers against the flimsy plastic of his cup and  _ not _ say something he’d undoubtedly regret later. The crinkling sound of his cup grounds him. 

Finally tearing his gaze away from the pool, Iwaizumi levels Tsukishima with an intense stare that doesn’t reveal much. “It sucks, realizing the other person couldn’t get it together to tell you.”

“What do you know? Our situations are completely different.”

“I know how it feels to be left in the dark about my own future.” Iwaizumi’s response is swift, to the point. Blunt. Just how Tsukishima normally likes his conversation partners. 

And yet, he feels his eye twitch in annoyance. He scoffs. “You’ve been friends with Oikawa since you were in the womb. As if your future ever didn’t involve Oikawa.”

Iwaizumi  _ looks _ at Tsukishima for a minute, his mouth a firm line across his face. He turns back to the pool, and Tsukishima follows his gaze to see Kuroo splashing one of the fourth years in the face with a palm full of water through the makeshift volleyball net bisecting the pool. “What are the chances you and Kuroo would end up in the same school? On the same team?” 

He knows Iwaizumi isn’t looking for an answer, so he says nothing. 

Over the mouth of his beer, Iwaizumi mutters just loud enough for Tsukishima to hear, “Seems like fate will keep sticking him in your future, anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THINGS ARE HAPPENING ALL AROUND TSUKKI
> 
> i originally intended to throw in another scene at the end, but i thought the pacing felt weird cutting it off where i had it and the content as this chapter is seems more cohesive! next chapter is a little ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) spicy~
> 
> i posted a quick lil krtsk one shot called [lost dinosaur](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25392982) in celebration of the end of the manga! please check it out if you haven't already! it's from kuroo's perspective and is different than my normal style, but it's my favourite piece i've ever written so i hope y'all are willing to give it a chance! i [tweet](https://twitter.com/OedipusOctopus) out a link to all my fics once they've been posted~ so follow me there for updates, or subscribe to me [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OedipusOctopus/pseuds/OedipusOctopus) on ao3! 
> 
> REMEMBER, no justice, no peace, abolish the police. black lives matter. arrest the cops who murdered breonna taylor. justice for jacob blake. stay mad, stay loud, stay SAFE babes <3


	5. covering my tongue in poison similiarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuroo doesn’t want him. 
> 
> The thought is more sobering than the fresh air filling his lungs. 
> 
> What the fuck is he doing?
> 
> Seriously, what the _fuck?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh. 
> 
> did i say this chapter was gonna be spicy?
> 
> i meant angsty. 
> 
> whoops.
> 
> chapter title from [skinny dipping](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vqx3f18MuFc&ab_channel=HopelessRecords) by [stand atlantic](https://open.spotify.com/artist/1W2Fv4YUnjC8hx2qQd6fGh?si=vWh5yML2Q9yzBwpJ-9T1Eg) as usual

Fuck parties.

Fuck these stupid, celebratory volleyball parties in particular. 

Between the growing stickiness of the hardwood floors and the pulsing music pounding at his temples, Tsukishima is thoroughly unentertained. 

Yeah, winning the regional bracket of the fall tournament is great and all, but he doesn't need to be shouted at by a chorus of sweaty, drunk dudes every time he enters a new room in search of momentary solace. 

On the upside, a pleasant hum has started to thrum in his pulse. It might be the number of red solo cups his seniors have been handing him all night, but he can't be certain if he's actually drunk or if this is some weird soulmate-pheromone induced haze at the fault of one Kuroo Tetsurou. 

Because he'd be lying if he said those ripped skinny jeans didn't do things to him. 

It's completely unfair, honestly. Tsukishima has seen the man as naked as the day he was born and it wasn't this affecting. But the way the black denim stretches over his thighs, the way the frayed rips dig into his knees— 

Too suddenly, the image of Kuroo dropping to his knees in that closet all those years ago flashes behind Tsukishima's eyes. 

_ Fuck. _

"Hey, Tsukki, you alright?"

Of course,  _ of fucking course,  _ Kuroo walks up to Tsukishima with his own red solo cup gripped in his hands— his stupid elegant hands with long fingers that Tsukishima knows are capable of absolute fucking miracles— 

No. No, he's not  _ alright. _

He doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him. 

He needs to leave. 

Like some kind of psychic, Kuroo says, “You look like you could use some air. C’mon.” Kuroo grabs his hand and leads him through throngs of people— some of them he thinks he recognizes, but it’s hard to tell because he feels like he’s staring at himself from outside his own body, and, wow, his head feels light and airy, like a balloon trying to fly into the sky. 

They break free from the oppressively hot atmosphere of the party and into the cool night air. 

The difference in temperature catches Tsukishima off guard and he stumbles over his feet, nearly face planting into the grass of the backyard. 

“Woah, hey, okay,” Kuroo says gently. “Alright, I’m gonna…” He lifts the plastic cup out of Tsukishima’s hand and sets it on the patio table, setting down his own drink too. “Jesus, Tsukki, how much have you had to drink?”

Tsukishima shrugs, having to stop himself from lurching forward with the shifting of his weight. He scoffs. “I don’t know. Daisuke and someone else kept giving them to me.”

Kuroo frowns. “That’s really reckless. For real, are you okay?”

Tsukishima gulps in a lungful of the night air, cool and sticky with impending autumnal storms. When he opens his mouth to speak, he means to say something witty, but instead he blurts out, “It’s your stupid pants.”

A confused look flashes across Kuroo’s face. He looks down at his legs. “My pants? What’s wrong with them?” He splays his fingers over his thighs as if feeling for something. 

“You’re dumb.” Tsukishima sighs. “I’m dumb.” Kuroo looks up from his lap, eyes searching. “This,” Tsukishima taps at Kuroo’s collarbone where he knows the word  _ summer _ is scrawled in red, “is fucking  _ dumb _ .”

And he’s still not sure what’s really making his limbs feel like jelly— the alcohol or the intoxicating way his soulmark is pulsating against his clavicle— but before he can think through what he’s doing, he’s pushing Kuroo against the table with hands gripping hips through those stupid fucking  _ jeans _ and he’s pressing his lips onto Kuroo’s with way too much force. 

Their teeth clack together and he can feel Kuroo wince against his body, but it only makes Tsukishima press harder, move his mouth more fervently against Kuroo’s. 

But Kuroo is barely doing fucking anything, his mouth clamped shut and lips pulled into a tight line that feels awful against Tsukishima’s. 

So Tsukishima digs his thumbs into Kuroo’s hip bones. 

Kuroo gasps and Tsukishima feels his body twitch against his front, and it’s all the invitation he needs to spill his tongue into Kuroo’s mouth.

Kuroo tastes like alcohol, sharp and bitter and a little bit sweet from the saccharine mixers, and warmth and something heady that makes Tsukishima’s head spin. It’s nothing like the way Tsukishima remembers their first kiss, but he supposes it’s only fair. 

They’re both different now. 

And finally,  _ fucking finally, _ Kuroo presses back against Tsukishima. His lips move languidly over Tsukishima’s, and,  _ oh, _ he swipes his tongue across the back of Tsukishima’s teeth and Tsukishima thinks he’s going to implode from the sensation of Kuroo’s arms gripping his shoulders like a vice paired with the smooth glide of their tongues meeting. 

For the first time in what feels like forever, his soulmark isn’t tingling or buzzing or burning or otherwise being a nuisance. 

Tsukishima groans as Kuroo sucks on his tongue, and he can’t help the jolt that sends his hips rolling against Kuroo’s. 

Too sudden, too stark, Kuroo stills and pulls away from Tuskishima, their lips making an obscene smacking sound as they separate. Kuroo’s fingers relax against his shoulders, relieving their previous, delicious pressure. 

And then Kuroo is pushing him away. 

The night air feels cold, too fucking cold, against his front as Kuroo holds him at arms length. 

There’s this look on Kuroo’s face, vulnerable and open and a conflicted, but Tsukishima can’t for the life of him figure out what the fuck is going on. All he wants is to feel Kuroo’s mouth against his again, so he leans in to connect their lips once more, but Kuroo’s arms lock, keeping him pushed away. 

“Tsukishima,” Kuroo breathes out, tone too serious and too soft and overwhelmingly gentle. “I—”

Oh. 

Kuroo is pushing him away. 

Kuroo doesn’t want to kiss him. 

Kuroo doesn’t want him. 

The thought is more sobering than the fresh air filling his lungs. 

What the fuck is he doing?

Seriously, what the  _ fuck? _

“Fuck,” Tsukishima breathes out. He digs the heel of his hand into his eye socket, pushing up his glasses.  _ That was out of line. Sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t be mad.  _ “Forget it.” He turns on his heel and nearly sprints back into the house. He needs to leave, get out of here. His head is pounding ten times harder now, his soulmark searing into his skin at a thousand degrees. 

“Tsukishima, wait!”

He hears Kuroo call behind him, but he can’t turn around, can’t face him right now, so he leaves. 

Like the fucking coward he is. 

~~

His key won’t fucking fit in this stupid fucking lock. Why the fuck did he even lock his door, anyway? He doesn’t have anything of value to steal, and  _ this fucking lock won’t fucking work. _

He slams his fist against the wood of the door. He could probably kick it open. He’s a fucking athlete. This shitty dorm hall door wouldn’t stand a chance. 

“Uh, Tsukishima?”

No. 

Nope. 

He refuses to admit that the universe could hate him this much. 

“Uh… are you okay? I heard a loud slam, so...” 

Saito’s stupid fucking voice is too fucking nice and the way he’s looking at Tsukishima is full of fucking pity. 

“Um… I think that’s the wrong key you’re trying to use.” Saito points at the lanyard in Tsukishima’s hand. “It looks like a house key.”

Tsukishima growls, shooting Saito the most menacing look he can muster over the way his body feels like it’s full of lead. He fumbles around with the keys in his hands. 

“I, uh, heard you guys won the tournament. You must be coming back from the celebration, eh?” Saito chuckles awkwardly, lifting a hand to the back of his neck. 

Tsukishima can’t seem to get a grip on the key and insert it into the doorknob, and he just wants to lie the fuck down and pass the fuck out already. 

But, of course, Saito keeps going. “I, uh, couldn’t make it to the game, but a friend recorded it for me—”

Fucking  _ finally _ . The knob twists and Tsukishima pushes the door open. 

Apparently with way too much force. 

The door practically flies open and Tsukishima stumbles as his hand is still connected to the knob. 

Saito lurches forward and rests a steadying hand on his bicep. “Woah, are you okay? You seem  _ really _ drunk. I can call Kuroo to help you—”

“No!” Tsukishima shouts. Saito’s eyebrows raise, mouth dropping open in surprise. Tsukishima clears his throat and brushes off Saito’s hand from his arm. “I mean, no, thank you.”

Saito’s eyebrows furrow. “Did something happen with you and Kuroo?”

“It’s none of your fucking business,” Tsukishima grinds out between clenched teeth. Fuck, his head hurts. He has water somewhere in his room. He moves toward his desk, hoping Saito will take the hint and fucking  _ leave. _

Of course he doesn’t.

“W-well, he’s my friend and you’re his soulmate, so it kind of is—”

Tsukishima whips his head around from where he was frantically searching his desk for the water bottle he’s sure he left here earlier. “I’m his  _ what? _ ”

Saito looks incredibly panicked. “It’s— um, you’re his soulmate, right? You touched your…” he trails off, lifting his hand to touch his own clavicle. “When I mentioned Kuroo, that one time. I know that’s where his soumark is, so I thought...”

“You thought wrong.” Tsukishima stalks toward Saito. “Kuroo is  _ nothing _ to me, okay? He’s a leech who won’t leave me alone.”

Face scrunching, Saito retreats into the hallway. “You’re a mean drunk, Tsukishima. Sober up so I don’t have to report your underaged intoxication.” 

Saito slams the door shut, leaving Tsukishima alone. 

Finally. 

He can’t enjoy the silence for long though, because a wave of nausea passes over him. 

Water, the fucking water. 

He pushes aside the cluttered papers spread across his desk and  _ bingo _ . He twists open the cap of the water bottle and chugs half the contents in one go. The cool liquid slides down his throat, seeming to at least dampen the pounding at his temples. 

He feels his phone buzz against his thigh. Sighing, he slips it out of his jeans. 

Of course. 

_ [1:34] >> ＼(*T▽T*)／ _ _   
_ _ [1:34] >> we won!!!!!!!! _

Of course it’s Kuroo, texting him like Tsukishima hadn’t forcibly shoved his tongue down his throat twenty minutes ago. 

_ Fuck. _

~~

Coach Harada gave them three days off of practice. 

_ You boys deserve it. And I don’t want to deal with your hungover asses on Saturday. _

That means three days of not having an excuse to see Kuroo. 

Correction, it means three days of having an excuse to  _ not _ see Kuroo. 

He wakes up Saturday morning with the worst splitting pain in his skull and the lingering taste of morning breath and too much tequila coating his too-dry mouth. It’s enough to make him retch into the trash can for five minutes. 

But what actually makes him vomit is the startling memory of him throwing himself at Kuroo. 

Whatever remains of his cold, hard soul shrivels up as he recalls the feeling of Kuroo pushing him away.

_ Fuck _ . 

He checks the time on his phone. 12:34pm. 

No lunch time text from Kuroo. 

God, he really messed up. 

He traces a finger over his soulmark and sighs. 

He has to tell Kuroo.

~~

It’s entirely too difficult to tear himself out of bed Wednesday morning. It’s two hours earlier than he’s had to wake up the last few days, so it makes sense. 

It has nothing to do with the impending sight of Kuroo. 

Of course not. 

So he trudges to morning volleyball practice because he’s a responsible team player. If his feet feel weighed down, it’s surely not because of the guilt he feels simmering beneath his skin. 

Kuroo is already warming up by the time Tsukishima enters the gym, bag slung over his shoulder. 

The douche doesn’t so much as look up from his stretches. 

Tsukishima scoffs and makes his way to the locker room. 

He’s shoving his bag into his locker, freshly cleaned practice clothes on his body, when Iwaizumi says, “Tsukishima.”

Tsukishima sighs and slams his locker shut, turning to face his senior. “What do you want, Iwaizumi-san?”

“You left the party in a rush on Friday. Is everything okay?”

“What’s it to you?” Tsukishima pushes past Iwaizumi to lace up his shoes at the bench. 

Iwaizumi sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Kuroo seemed off the rest of the night. I wanted to make sure nothing happened between you two.”

Plastering on the widest smile he can muster right now, Tsukishima tilts his head innocently. “Nothing that will affect our play, I assure you.”

The frown on Iwaizumi’s face deepens. “That’s not a no.”

“Congrats on your basic comprehension.” Tsukishima straightens. “Excuse me.” He bows slightly before walking away to join the rest of the team in warmups. 

~~

Kuroo is alarmingly… normal. 

Tsukishima supposes it makes sense; Kuroo takes volleyball extremely seriously. He’s been vying for the captain position the whole season. Obviously he wouldn’t want Harada to see him act unprofessional, or whatever. 

But even in the locker room, when Kuroo catches Tsukishima’s eye over the shoulder of one of the wing spikers, Kuroo sends him that lopsided smirk and rolls his eyes at whatever misogynistic comment he’s being fed. 

And then, like clockwork, Tsukishima’s phone pings with a new multimedia message from Kuroo at exactly 12:17pm. A picture of Kuroo’s hastily packed lunch propped in his lap and his laptop opened to an empty word document. 

_ [12:17] >> [image] _ _   
_ _ [12:17] >> essay due at 5pm, haven’t started _ _   
_ _ [12:18] >> don’t follow in your dear senpai’s footsteps (⊙︿⊙✿) _

Like nothing ever happened.

~~

He’s starting to think the kiss is something his drunk brain thought up as he stares down at his phone. 

_ [17:01] >> [image of online assignment submission] _ _   
_ _ [17:01] >> i did it, tsukki!!! （๑✧∀✧๑） _ __   
_ [17:02] >> meet me at the diner in 15 _ _   
_ __ [17:02] >> i’m in dire need of carbs after harada’s torture diet (O∆O)

Tsukishima fancies himself intelligent. Smarter than the average person. Considerably smarter than most of his peers. 

But slamming around volleyballs everyday must have knocked a few of his brain cells loose, because he replies:

_ [17:05] >> sure. _

~~~~~~~~~

Their captain has a hand clasped over one of Tsukishima’s shoulders. Tsukishima can feel how hot and sweaty his palm is even through his uniform. He’s blabbering on about how  _ totally epic _ that last stuff was, and  _ from a freshman no less _ . 

“Tsukishima-san.”

Just a few feet away, a man in a slightly wrinkled suit and equally disheveled tie smiles brightly at Tsukishima. He must be in his mid-forties, if the slicked-back graying hair at his temples is any indication. His tie clip has a tiny silver frog sculpted into the end.

That broad smile doesn’t falter as the strange man says, “A word?”

Captain Watanabe jostles Tsukishima’s shoulder as he leans in to whisper none-too-quietly, “That guy is from the JVA! Go get ‘em!” With all the strength of a great receiver, he pushes Tsukishima toward the guy in the suit. 

The guy in the suit from the Japanese Volleyball Association. 

Tsukishima bows slightly as he steps closer to the man. He’s sure his confusion is written plainly across his face, because what the hell could a JVA rep want with him?

“Ah, Tsukishima-san, it’s great to finally meet you. My name is Nakamura Itsuki. You’re from Miyagi, right? Say, have you heard of the Sendai Frogs?”

~~~~~~~~~

Kuroo is already seated at their usual booth, tucked into the corner farthest from the entrance, when he swings open the door to the diner. 

The waitress on duty, the nice one with a blonde streak through her bangs, smiles at Tsukishima as she continues to wipe down the counter. “Welcome back, Tsukki. Kuroo-san already ordered for you.”

Tsukishima sighs. “How come he gets an honorfic and you don’t even get my name right?”

The waitress giggles. Today, her nametag says  _ Aoi. _ “He’s older than me. Respect, duh.”

Shaking his head in defeat, Tsukishima makes his way to where Kuroo sits. In front of him, two steaming mugs of coffee. The one grasped in his hands has been coloured a soft beige with cream, the other remains a deep black. 

He slides into the opposite side of the booth, ignoring the way his heart speeds up when Kuroo finally sees him and that stupid, infection grin spreads across that stupid, attractive face. 

“Ah, Tsukki, you  _ finally _ made it. I was just about to wither away, waiting for you.” Kuroo flutters his eyelashes dramatically, resting the back of his hand against his palm in pseudo-feint.

Tsukishima rolls his eyes. “I’m here exactly fifteen minutes after I told you I’d meet you. Don’t be so dramatic.” He sips at his coffee, relishing in the hint of vanilla accompanying the bitter taste as it settles over his tongue.

“Ah, but that was three minutes after I told you what time to meet me. Ergo, you’re three minutes late.” Kuroo smirks at him over the rim of his cup. 

It’s weird, this normal banter. Tsukishima threw himself at Kuroo, and Kuroo doesn’t bat an eye? No, the bastard is sitting in his booth, legs sprawled all the way to Tsukishima’s side of the booth, shoulders relaxed, his face alight with mirth. Like normal. 

It has to have been a figment of his imagination, then. 

“So,” Kuroo says, leaning forward slightly. “I saw that scout approach you after the game on Friday.”

Tsukishima feels tension creep up his spine. Every time he’s caught sight of that man’s business card sitting on his desk, he’s valiantly ignored the thousand thoughts that filter through his brain. 

_ “V League, Division 2. You can play now or when you graduate. Though, if I were you, I’d take the offer sooner rather than later.” _

“What team?” Kuroo’s voice cuts clear through the anxiety rushing through his veins, threatening to overwhelm him. 

“Uh, Sendai Frogs.”

Kuroo hums contemplatively, but before he can say anything, maybe-Aoi is setting down two plates piled high with greasy food. Kuroo smiles up at her. Tsukishima mutters a quiet thank you as she walks away. 

“I don’t get it,” Tsukishima says as Kuroo shovels a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. “I’m not even a starter. I have no clue what they could want from me.”

Kuroo levels him with a  _ look— _ narrowed eyes, nose scrunched up, corner of his mouth turned downward. He swallows his food and sets down his fork resolutely. “You’re good, Tsukki. You know that, so don’t pretend to think otherwise.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Tsukishima huffs. “They should’ve talked to you—”

“They have.”

Tsukishima pauses, stumbling. “Excuse me?”

Kuroo looks at Tsukishima, expression unreadable as he searches Tsukishima’s eyes for several moments. It’s weird, sends a tingling sensation sprawling along his collarbone. Tsukishima thinks he can see Kuroo’s pulse in his throat, steadily thrumming in time with his own. He doesn’t know what’s happening, why the air suddenly feels like it’s pushing down on him, crushing him. They’re not even talking about anything real, not really. 

Eventually, Kuroo sighs and says, “It was my first varsity game last year, when Harada gave me a shot to play while I was still JV. They weren’t there for me, but they saw me play and they were interested.” He pauses, takes a bite of hashbrown, chews slowly. “It hasn’t been my only offer.”

“Oh,” Tsukishima says simply. “Then why are you still here?”

Flippantly, Kuroo waves his hand in the air in a vague gesture of dismissal. “I turned them all down, duh.”

“But… why?”

“I don’t have an interest to play professionally.” As if it were obvious.

Tsukishima furrows his brows. “Then what do you want to do?”

“Honestly, Tsukki,” Kuroo breathes out heavily, over-exaggeratedly. “We’ve been friends for two whole semesters and you’re just now asking what my major is?”

Scoffing, Tsukishima cuts a small triangle out of his pancake. “Forget I asked.”

Kuroo chuckles, and it’s deep and sends vibrations across the table. He shifts his leg slightly to press his ankle against Tsukishima’s. Smoothly, too smoothly, he rests his arm across the table and lets his fingers run over the back of Tsukishima’s wrist, slowly, gently, soothingly. 

It’s this kind of easy intimacy that’s actually going to make Tsukishima combust. As it is, his heart is threatening to leap out of his ribcage. 

“Business,” Kuroo says. “I’m majoring in business.”

Tsukishima retreats his arm to escape Kuroo’s sordidly gentle touch. He scoffs, hoping it’s enough to distract from the heat rising to his cheeks. “I never would’ve guessed you to be a snake.”

Kuroo snorts into the brim of his mug. “Me neither, trust me.” He leans back, rubbing his foot against Tsukishima’s calf. Fucking footsies,  _ again _ . “But I want to do promotion for the JVA.”

“So, still in volleyball. Why not just play?”

“God, okay.” Kuroo leans forward and lowers his voice. His eyes dart around the diner suspiciously, as if someone would be interested in their conversation about Kuroo’s future. “This is going to sound sappy, but you can’t make fun of me. Okay?”

Tsukishima feels a smirk tugging at the corner of his lip. He leans in to mirror Kuroo’s hunched over position. “Depends how stupid it is.”

Kuroo grins slyly in response, as if he wasn’t expecting anything else from Tsukishima. The thought makes Tsukishima’s heart rate pick up again. “That’ll do. So, do you remember when we played together at the nationals?”

“We didn’t play  _ together _ . We played  _ against _ each other.”

“Details, details.” Kuroo sighs and leans back but keeps his voice low. “Anyway, when you said that you enjoy volleyball thanks to me, it…” he trails off, looking  _ bashful _ . He averts his gaze from Tsukishima’s, and it’s kind of cute. 

_ Oh my god, he’s not cute. He’s a grown ass man. Get it together. _

“It felt… good. Like, really, really good. So I looked into it, and it turns out you can make a whole career of hyping up volleyball to people.”

Oh. 

That’s…

That’s not fair at all. 

How could Tsukishima make fun of Kuroo after that?

Being told something he said altered someone’s future in any way, let alone their entire career path, their  _ future _ …

He’d said those words in the heat of the moment, in a brief lapse of the competitive rush traversing through his veins. They were supposed to be witty enough to convey his gratitude without being overly sentimental. Without being too vulnerable. 

But, oh, fuck. 

Kuroo is looking at him expectantly, hasn’t moved a centimeter since he last spoke. 

Tsukishima clears his throat. “That seems…” he squashes down the overly sappy word vomit threatening to spill out of his mouth. “...very you.”

Seemingly satisfied, Kuroo grins. His shoulders relax as the tension tied into his spine visibly leaves him. “It does, doesn’t it?”

It’s so completely, utterly ridiculous to think that those words spoken so long ago could have had such a profound effect, that Tsukishima forgets about the kiss-that-shouldn’t-have-happened for the rest of the meal.

~~

It’s at the end of the evening, when the sun no longer hangs in the sky and the autumn chill has settled over the campus that Tsukishima remembers. 

But Kuroo doesn’t seem to. At least, he hasn’t said anything about it. Or in any way indicated that it did happen. 

They’re walking side by side, Tsukishima with his fists stuffed into his jacket pockets, Kuroo with his hands clasped behind his head. They walk toward Tsukishima’s dorm, even though Tsukishima has told Kuroo approximately one thousand times that he doesn’t require an  _ escort _ . 

(The first time Tsukishima phrased it that way, Kuroo had stuck out his tongue and said, “ _ You couldn’t afford an escort like me, Tsukki~” _ and it definitely hadn’t made Tsukishima’s face grow hot with the implications.)

And normally, under different circumstances— those wherein his clavicle doesn’t catch fire every time he lays eyes on Kuroo— Tsukishima would be perfectly content to let sleeping dogs lie. Move on. Continue to be friends. Just friends, nothing more. 

But his clavicle does burn. Guilt does swim beneath his skin, slow and heavy and altogether too big. 

So it’s entirely out of his control when he blurts out, “You haven’t asked about the kiss.”

Kuroo stops in his tracks. Tsukishima does the same, realizing they’re just outside his dormitory. He turns to face Kuroo. 

Kuroo takes a deep breath, releases it slowly. He raises his hands in surrender as he says, “You were drunk, I was buzzed, and you said to quote ‘forget it.’ Consider it forgotten.”

Tsukishima observes Kuroo with narrowed eyes. Kuroo’s lip is quirked upward, but there’s still a definitive weight to his smile. Sadness, or something. Something not great, whatever it is. 

He wants to say something—  _ needs _ to say something, but for possibly the first time since he’s met Kuroo, he stops to think. 

They’re friends. Kuroo said so. They talk all the time. See each other in practice six days of the week. They have absurdly late study sessions in the library even though they aren’t in any of the same classes. They visit the diner whenever one of them is having a hard time. Sometimes Kuroo shows up to Tsukishima’s dorm holding a thumb drive with some illegally obtained movie for them to watch. 

It’s nice.

Stable. 

Kuroo said he was done with  _ dating games _ . 

That he wanted to settle down. 

Stability. 

Tsukishima can give him stability, can continue to be the stability in his life, if that’s what he wants. 

But Tsukishima doesn’t know, doesn’t understand what it is Kuroo wants. 

Kuroo touches him  _ all the time _ , with the stupid footsies and the soft caresses along the back of his hand, with the arms around his shoulders when they’re both sweaty and gross after practice, with the stupid  _ heart emojis _ . 

But Kuroo is the one who pushed Tsukishima away when he went for it. 

He doesn’t fucking  _ know _ and it’s driving him crazy. 

It’s not fair, because he knows they’re god damn soulmates and Kuroo doesn’t, but… 

It’s different. 

And right here, right now, Kuroo is giving Tsukishima this half-assed smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and it’s infuriating.

“Cut the bullshit, Kuroo.”

That fake smile slips off Kuroo’s face. “What?”

“You— you just—” Tsukishima throws his hands in the air. “You do this  _ thing. _ Smirk and grin and laugh like a god damn hyena to hide what you’re thinking.”

Kuroo lifts an eyebrow but his face remains impassive otherwise. “Because you’re such an open book, right?”

The words aren’t said with any sort of malice, not really, but they hit Tsukishima like a ten ton truck. 

Tsukishima scoffs. “Fine, whatever.” He pushes past Kuroo toward the dorm entrance. 

“Wait,” Kuroo jolts forward, grabbing his wrist. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Turning around to face Kuroo, Tsukishima pulls his wrist from Kuroo’s grasp. 

“There is something on my mind.”

“I know,” Tsukishima says, because he does. 

Kuroo’s lip ticks up for a split second. “You don’t have to be such a know it all, you little shit.”

“It’s not my fault I’m always right.” It’s easy to fall into this banter. Normal. Comfortable. But Tsukishima knows this situation is bigger than normal. “What is it, then?”

“It’s kind of…” Kuroo averts his gaze, looking at everything around them that isn’t Tsukishima. When his eyes finally land on Tsukishima again, he continues. “It’s bad timing. Really bad.”

Tsukishima cocks his head. “Timing for…?”

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

Colour Tsukishima thoroughly confused. 

Kuroo sighs. “Okay, look. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for weeks— actually, it’s probably been months already— so I don’t want you to think it has anything to do with what happened at the party.” He clenches his hands into tight fists at his sides. “Promise me you’ll just… forget that  _ that _ happened. For the next five minutes.”

“Um.” Tsukishima settles his weight onto his heels. “Okay.”

“Er,” Kuroo starts. He stops himself and lifts a hand to scratch at the back of his neck nervously. “It usually isn’t this hard.” He lets out a truly disingenuous chuckle that is miles away from his typical horrendous laugh. 

It still shakes Tsukishima to the core. He’s tired. “Just spit it out already.”

“You don’t need to be mean!” 

Tsukishima trains him with a firm look. 

“Okay, okay. Okay.” Taking a deep breath, Kuroo looks Tsukishima dead in the face, amber eyes focused. Serious. “Would you like to go on a date?”

He…

Doesn’t know what to say. 

He feels himself blink. 

“With, uh, with me,” Kuroo stutters out. “If that was unclear.”

Panicked, Tsukishima shakes his head. “N-no. It was perfectly clear.”

_ What the fuck? _

“Uh. Great. Um.” Kuroo coughs into his fist. “So…?”

The kanji imprinted into his collarbone tingles. No, it vibrates. 

He wonders if Kuroo feels it, too. 

He just— 

He needs to say something. About them. About the soulmark. About how he should’ve said something months ago. Years ago. 

He needs to say  _ something  _ but he can’t. 

He just stares at Kuroo. 

The way his soulmark is going crazy— seriously, Kuroo has to feel it, too right? There’s no way this whole time Kuroo hasn’t felt something. An inkling. Anything. 

Right?

Tsukishima can only watch in abject horror as Kuroo’s expression grows increasingly more unnerved. Scared. 

He can’t force his vocal chords to just  _ do the thing _ .

“You know what?” Kuroo plasters that stupid, fake fucking grin on his face but it’s by far the worst cover-up attempt Tsukishima has seen to date. It looks more like a grimace. “Just forget I asked. It was out of line. I— I’ll see you around, Tsukki.”

And just like that, Kuroo spins on his heel. 

Tsukishima is stuck, glued to the cement beneath his feet, as he watches Kuroo walk away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M REALLY SORRY THIS TURNED OUT WAY MORE,,,, ANGSTY THAN I THOUGHT IT WOULD I SWEAR,,,, SPICE NEXT CHAPTER I PROMISE
> 
> ANYWAY only one more chapter left (and then a sweet lil epilogue!)!!!! hopefully it won't be an entire month between updates!!! but!!! thank you so so so so much to everyone who's stuck around and left kudos and wonderfully sweet comments!!!
> 
> p.s. i submitted a piece for the [lunanoir](https://lunanoirfest.carrd.co/) krtsk festival, and the fics start posting [here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/lnkrtskfest2020) in three days (sept 27)! they'll be posted anonymously, but i'll be giving hints on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/OedipusOctopus) as to which one is mine before the reveals on october 9! <3 (I also post updates on my writing/links to my fics when i release them!)
> 
> stay safe, stay loud, stay angry. [black lives matter](https://blacklivesmatter.com/). [JUSTICE FOR BREONNA TAYLOR](https://petitions.whitehouse.gov/petition/arrest-killers-breonna-taylor). [VOTE](https://www.vote.org/) if you can. wear a fucking mask, babes <3


	6. quit pulling my ankles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tsukishima lets out a breath, stuttery and shaky and awful. His soulmark is molten lava against his shoulder, so hot he thinks it’s turned his brain to useless goo, too. But he has to. He has to say it, now. He should’ve years ago. 
> 
> “Listen, Kuroo, I need to tell you something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're at the end, folks :')
> 
> (i hope you like dialogue!)
> 
> chapter title from [skinny dipping](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vqx3f18MuFc&ab_channel=HopelessRecords) by [stand atlantic](https://open.spotify.com/artist/1W2Fv4YUnjC8hx2qQd6fGh?si=4aUvX-fxQPyRx2ME2nk19A)

"Kuroo!"

Kuroo stops, no more than seven or eight paces away. He doesn't turn around, doesn't move.

Tsukishima curses to himself and looks around, seeing that the few passersby notice his shout. He fastwalks to Kuroo and lifts his arm to grab him, but decides better of it. He says, at a perfectly reasonable volume this time, "Let's talk. Inside."

Kuroo tilts his head slightly to glance at Tsukishima out of the corner of his eye, but doesn't respond. 

"Please." Tsukishima grits his teeth as he says it— practically begs. It's disgusting, but with the amount of guilt thrumming in his veins, so is he. 

"Fine," Kuroo breathes the word out in a way that lets Tsukishima know that it is assuredly not fine. 

He glances down at Kuroo’s hand. No, he shouldn’t. He better not. 

So he nods and starts to walk toward the entrance of his dorm, hoping Kuroo is following him. 

This is it. This is his chance to finally, finally say something. Clarify. Come clean. It’s not like he’s technically lied to Kuroo ever, not about the soulmate issue. He’d meant to— wanted to— tell Kuroo all those years ago, when the stupid kanji appreared on his collarbone. It’s why he wanted Kuroo’s number to begin with. 

But he needs to know  _ why. _

Why Kuroo would ask him out, when he’s said he wants to settle down— that’s a line out of the waiting-for-my-soulmate playbook. 

Kuroo asked him though, without even knowing about their connection. 

He’s expecting yelling. Lots of it, probably. He doesn’t know what to say or how to say it in a way that could minimize the fallout. 

He knows he'd yell, were their roles reversed.

But they're not, so Tsukishima has to be the bearer of… news.

They walk into the building, each with their hands stuffed into their pockets and likely matching faces of dread. Horror, maybe. Panic, perhaps.

Whatever.

And of course, of fucking course, Saito is manning the front desk. He looks up from his computer monitor, his eyes widening so far it'd be comical, if not for the waves of anxiety cresting in Tsukishima’s gut. Saito’s eyes bounce between the two of them, and he opens his mouth to say something, but Tsukishima sends him his most menacing glare that actually, for once, manages to shut him up.

As Tsukishima is twisting his key in the lock to his dorm, Kuroo says, "Saito’s not a bad guy, y'know. Don't give him too hard a time, yeah?"

"Tch." Tsukishima pushes open the door, gesturing for Kuroo to enter ahead of him. He shuts the door softly behind himself. 

"So." Kuroo kicks the ground softly. "This is the humble abode of Tsukishima Kei."

"I thought we were done with the bullshit."

Kuroo heaves out a breath, large and hollow. He throws his hands in the air and drops himself into Tsukishima's desk chair. "I don't know what we are, Tsukki."

It's so earnest, the way he says it, the words intertwined with a sigh. 

It makes Tsukishima’s heart stutter, and not in the fluttery way that happens when Kuroo drapes an arm across his shoulder or, god forbid, plays footsies with him under the table. 

"Look, I—" Tsukishima pauses, letting out a frustrated growl. "Why me? Why not wait for your soulmate?" 

Kuroo shrugs a shoulder, feigning nonchalance. But Tsukishima sees how tense his posture is, how the despair that was plainly written across his face not five minutes ago has wound him so tightly he looks like he could snap at any moment. 

Taking a deep breath, Tsukishima says, "I thought you were done with the _dating_ _games_. I thought you wanted to settle down."

"This isn't— this isn't a game to me!” Kuroo’s face twists into a grimace, brows furrowed and lips stretched thin. “My soulmate isn't here. Who knows when they'll show up? I want  _ you, _ and you're here right now, so why let them get in the way?"

_ Get in the way.  _

"Oh," Tsukishima says, cutting, "so it's because you think I'm easy, then? That we'll just pick up where we left off in the closet, or at the party?"

"Jesus, Tsukki, of course not! That's not what this is at all!"

He knows they're shouting now, and they're in his tiny dorm room with too-thin walls and his neighbors whom he hasn't met probably hate him right now. He knows, but that doesn't mean he can stop the words from spilling out of his mouth. "Oh yeah? Then what is it?"

"I—!" Kuroo stops. He takes a steady, deep breath, leaning back into the desk chair. "Look, I haven't… I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since— since that training camp—"

Tsukishima scoffs, cutting him off. "Yeah, right. Like I haven't heard all about your  _ conquests. _ "

"Conquests?" Kuroo seems honestly baffled, and it pisses Tsukishima right the fuck off. "It doesn't matter. Tsukishima, please, just let me talk for a minute, okay?  _ Please." _

"Fine. Talk." Tsukishima crosses his arms, wishing there was somewhere other than the bed for him to sit because his knees are starting to feel like jelly.

"Thank you," Kuroo breathes out. "I'm sorry for yelling. I just… I really haven't been able to get you out of my head. And to be clear, I don't have 'conquests.' At parties I always— I take people who are way too drunk back to their homes. I don't sleep with them. Suzuki and Ito exaggerate, or are too drunk to understand what's actually happening, I swear. But that's not— that's not the point." 

When Kuroo inhales deeply, Tsukishima feels like the man has stolen the air directly from his own lungs. 

"No, I haven’t stopped thinking about how I should've gotten your number that summer. I did try, for the record, to get Kenma to get it from Shrimpy but he wouldn't— but that's not important." 

Tsukishima thinks it is, a little. 

"But when I saw you come into the Tokyo U gym in April, I… I got this feeling in my chest, like the first time I saw you but a thousand times more intense. Like an explosion! Or something." At Tsukishima’s skeptical look, he raises his hands in surrender. "I know it's cheesy but I promise that's what it felt like. And I know you don't have any reason to believe anything I'm saying, but I swear, Tsukishima, I'm being completely honest. Full stop." 

And, oh, if his knees weren't liquefied before, they are now.  _ Summer _ sears into the skin beneath his shirt, threatening to melt his clavicle under the onslaught of heat. It's too much, it's not enough, he needs to just say something— 

"I am done with the games. But honestly… I'm done waiting for my soulmate. I want _ you, _ Tsukishima. I always have and…" 

_ I always will  _ goes unsaid, but no less unheard. 

"So, that's it. You don't have to answer me or say anything at all. Just know that I'm telling you the truth."

"I…" Tsukishima starts, but quickly stops himself from saying anything rash. Kuroo needs to know, deserves to. He knows this, but he can't push the words over the lump in his throat. 

"Not even a witty response, eh? I've left the mighty Tsukishkma Kei speechless. Incredible."

Furrowing his brows, Tsukishima clenches his fists at his sides. “This isn’t funny.”

“No, it’s not.” Kuroo smiles but it’s sad, weak. “But it’s us, y’know?”

Tsukishima lets out a breath, stuttery and shaky and awful. His soulmark is molten lava against his shoulder, so hot he thinks it’s turned his brain to useless goo, too. But he has to. He has to say it, now. He should’ve years ago. “Listen, Kuroo, I need to tell you something.”

The smile drops from Kuroo’s face until his features are still, serious once more. He nods. “Okay.”

It’s now, it has to be, but Tsukishima still can’t find the right words. His tongue feels like it weighs ten tons in his mouth. “It’s…” Tsukishima sighs. “It’s stupid. You’re going to think it’s really stupid.”

Kuroo shakes his head. “If it’s as important as it obviously is to you, it’s not stupid. Don’t downplay your emotions.”

His fingernails bite into the palm of his hands. “You’re going to be mad.”

“Oh?” Kuroo cocks his head and licks his bottom lip. “Um. I can try not to be—”

“I can’t ask that of you. Not about this.” Because Tsukishima would be furious beyond a doubt, were it him about to hear a secret three years too late. 

“Well, I’ll still try.”

_ Fuck _ , Tsukishima doesn’t deserve this kind of patience. 

Doesn’t deserve Kuroo, the guy who’s been nothing but supportive and present and always pushing Tsukishima to do better, to be better. 

It’s not fair to Kuroo, and he still can’t figure out the best way to phrase  _ We’re soulmates and I’ve been hiding it from you for years, sorry, haha _ that wouldn’t lead to completely ruining whatever it is they have right now. 

“Ugh, it’s just—” Tsukishima growls lowly in frustration. 

Tsukishima has never been good with words, anyway. 

In some sort of guilt-anxiety fit of impulse, he tugs his shirt over his head, too roughly and quickly and his limbs don’t feel like his anymore. 

He squeezes his eyes shut when the fabric lifts over his glasses. 

It’s a vain attempt to not have to see Kuroo’s reaction, but he can still see Kuroo’s face perfectly imprinted behind his eyelids. A thousand emotions cross those sharp, feline features. 

Shock, anger, disappointment.

Mostly anger, though. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes, him just standing there without a shirt and Kuroo not fucking saying anything at all. The only sound Tsukishima hears is the blood rushing through his ears, his heartbeat thud-thud-thudding against his ribcage. 

He starts counting his heartbeats, steady and loud and pulsating and the only thing grounding him to this earthly plane right now. 

Tsukishima gets to 114 before either of them speaks. 

“Can I…?” 

Realistically, Tsukishima recognizes that Kuroo’s voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper, and it sounds a million miles away, but the pure, sincere awe wound around the words stabs him through the chest, momentarily stilling his beating heart. 

Tsukishima wrenches his eyes open and sees Kuroo is now standing in front of him, a mere six inches away, and he looks— his face is— 

A perfectly mirrored expression of the utter, complete reverence threaded into his words. 

Not a hint of fury or rage or any of the other explosive things Tsukishima thinks he  _ should _ be feeling as his eyes are fixed on Tsukishima’s soulmark. 

Dumbstruck, it’s all Tsukishima can do to nod. 

Kuroo reaches his right hand slowly in the same way you would move touch a wild animal, afraid that it’ll run off as soon as you make contact. So slowly, too slowly, and Tsukishima’s heart picks up its hummingbird speed beneath his ribs. 

As the tips of Kuroo’s fingers, callused and rough and warm, brush over the kanji inked into his skin, it’s like the floodgates have been opened. 

It’s not the same white-hot burning sensation that has defined the last three years. 

No, it’s like stepping into the ocean on the hottest day of the year. It’s like dipping your toes into still puddles after a mid-June storm if only for momentary reprieve from the oppressive heat of an impending summer. It’s the ice cold rush of surfacing from the onsen in December. 

It’s the cool, washing relief of coming home after a long trip. 

“So you— you’re—”

There’s some comfort to be had in the fact that Kuroo can’t find the words, either. Somehow, Tsukishima manages to breathe out a soft, “Yeah.”

Kuroo purses his lips, pulling his hand away from Tsukishima’s skin. 

The warm, tingly burn is back. 

Kuroo doesn’t say anything for several beats. Tsukishima bends down to pick up his shirt, pulling it back over his head. 

“I don’t…” Kuroo trails off, still standing in front of Tsukishima with that openly surprised look on his face. 

“Yeah,” Tsukishima repeats like a damn broken record. He doesn’t, he can’t, either.

“That’s—” Kuroo inhales sharply through his teeth. “This is  _ great.” _

“What?” Tsukishima spits out. No, it’s not  _ great. _ Tsukishima is a filthy fucking liar. Kuroo should be mad. Furious. Done with Tsukishima’s shit.

But no, Kuroo has to go and smile so fucking wide, wobbly and wet. His whole face melts into a soft picture of wonderment. “God, Tsukki. I’m so fucking  _ happy.” _

What. 

_ What. _

“...what?”

“Did you listen to anything I just said?” Kuroo’s eyes light up with their regular glint of sprightliness, but it’s intertwined with an exuberant gaiety Tsukishima hasn’t seen before. “C’mon, that was a great speech! Did you hear a word I said about how into you I am?”

“But I— I hid—”

Kuroo shakes his head, cutting him off. “No, it doesn’t matter. I am so fucking happy, Tsukki! Wait, can I call you Kei? You should definitely call me Tetsurou. Or Tetsu.” Giddiness seeps into his voice as he speaks. He’s practically vibrating. 

It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. “You should be mad.”

Instead, Kuroo grins even wider. “I probably will be later, but  _ Kei _ , this is seriously just— I am. So. Happy. I’ve finally found you.” He wraps his arms around Tsukishima’s shoulders, pulling him in so tightly Tsukishima thinks he might burst from the pressure. “God, I’ve been looking everywhere for you, you know?”

Tsukishima doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Should he hug back? This doesn’t really seem like a hugging situation, not at all. So he lets his arms hang limply at his side. “It wasn’t me specifically you were looking for, idiot.”

“But it was!” Kuroo pushes Tsukishima away from his body, but keeps his hands firmly clasped at his shoulders. That stupid, stupid grin is still plastered on his face. “God, Kei, thank you.”

“W— for what?”

“Telling me.”

“But I—”

Kuroo puts a finger to his lips. “We can talk about it later. We  _ have _ to talk about it later. But for now, please let me have this! You’ve had, what, three years to adjust to it? Jesus, Kei, I’m so happy.” He lowers his hand, grin melting into a soft smile. “I have to tell everyone!”

Tsukishima splutters. “Tell everyone what? We aren’t even dating!”

“We aren’t— you’re right. You never answered my question.” Kuroo grabs Tsukishima’s hands between his, the contact sending heat straight to Tsukishima’s cheeks. “Tsukishima Kei, will you do me the honour of going out with me?”

The warmth spreads all the way down his neck. “I— what— we should talk about—” God, he’s never sounded like such an illiterate moron. 

“We will, I promise, but please answer!” Looking down at their clasped hands, Kuroo deflates. “Unless… you don’t want to, and that’s why you’ve kept it hidden?”

Really, does Kuroo think Tsukishima would have gone through  _ this _ if he didn’t want to? Rolling his eyes, Tsukishima sighs. “That’s not it at all. I… yes.”

“Yes?” Kuroo perks up, his hand squeezing around Tsukishima’s. 

Tsukishima can’t look him in the eye as he says, “Yes, I’ll go out with you.”

“Can I kiss you?” 

Tsukishima snaps his gaze up from his feet. Kuroo is looking at him, soft and earnest and sincere and still with that awestruck glaze to his eyes, and it’s not right, Tsukishima doesn’t deserve this, he should be getting slapped, not  _ kissed _ , but Kuroo looks so open and honest and legitimately overjoyed, it’s all Tsukishima can do to nod. 

Letting go of Tsukishima’s hands, Kuroo lifts his arm to brush his fingers along Tsukishima’s jaw. The pads of his fingers leave a wake of goosebumps in their path as they trail along his hairline, down to his neck, over the lobe of his ear. All the while, Kuroo is bestowing Tsukishima a tender smile, like he isn’t rendering Tsukishima’s skeleton into a useless blob of goo with nothing more than the trace of his touch. 

A shudder trills down Tsukishima’s spine at the onslaught of tactile sensation. The room feels too big, like it might swallow him whole, but also too small, like Tsukishima and Kuroo are bigger than the world, and the air around them is too thick, sticking to his lungs and smothering him beneath all the heavy emotion permeating the atmosphere. 

The instant Tsukishima registers the warmth pressing against his lips, firm and soft and pliant all at once, he really does melt. 

It’s nothing like any kiss they’ve shared before, charged and electric and full of something Tsukishima isn’t sure he understands. 

His hands find Kuroo’s mess of hair, surprisingly soft under his fingers as he threads them through the inky black strands. Kuroo’s hand cups the back of Tsukishima’s neck, fingertips brushing against the soft curls of his hairline. His other hand finds Tsukishima’s hip and grabs with just enough pressure to say  _ I’m here _ and  _ don’t go _ but holds no allusion, no innuendo. 

Kuroo’s lips slide against Tsukishima’s slowly, languidly, without hurry, and Tsukishima tries his best to keep up even though his head is spinning, mind is reeling from the emotional whiplash of the last five minutes. 

It’s happening. 

Kuroo knows, now, and is somehow  _ happy _ about it. 

Fuck, he should’ve done this so long ago. 

The way Kuroo kisses like he’s trying to steal the very essence of Tsukishima’s life through his mouth is intoxicating. 

Soon— or maybe it isn’t, with how puffy Kuroo’s kiss-bitten lips are as he pulls away a scant few centimeters— too soon, Kuroo is pulling away and smiling up at Tsukishima with a stupid, besotted upturn of his lips. 

Neither of them say anything as they stand there, connected to each other, in the middle of Tsukishima’s room. 

But silences are meant to be broken. 

And, because he’s an ass, Tsukishima says, “I won’t call you Tetsu. That’s too stupid.”

Kuroo chuckles in response, resting his forehead against Tsukishima’s. “We’ll work on it.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 _Unknown Number_ _  
_ _[2:34] >> Don’t let my captain fool you with his sarcasm, he’s a softie! _

_Unknown Number_ _  
_ _[3:56] >> You told him. _ _  
_ _[4:47] >> Thank you. _

_Unknown Number_ _  
_ _[5:48] >> Tsukki!!! _ _  
_ _[5:48] >> Welcome to the family, bro! _ _  
_ _[5:49] >> I always knew you two had something special ;) _ _  
_ _[5:49] >> But that is my best bro, so don’t fuck it up!!! _

_Unknown Number_ _  
_ _[6:32] >> Don’t take Bokuto too seriously _ _  
_ _[6:35] >> Congrats. _

_Sawamura Daichi_ _  
_ _[6:45] >> Is this why you wanted his number? _ _  
_ _[6:45] >> You should have said so! _

_Idiot #2_ _  
_ _[7:37] >> Congrats, I guess _ _  
_ _[7:42] >> Don’t fuck it up _

_Idiot #1  
_ _[8:18] >> saltyshima!!!! _ _  
_ _[8:19] >> rooster head is ur soulmate?!?!?! thats so cool!!!! _ _  
_ _[8:19] >> ur lucky its not a meanie like bakayama!!! :( _

_Tadashi_ _  
_ _[9:32] >> Woah _ _  
_ _[9:33] >> I just read the groupchat _ _  
_ _[9:33] >> You finally told him! _ _  
_ _[9:34] >> I’m so proud :’) _

_Kuroo_ _  
_ _[10:16] >> I may have told everyone _  
_[10:17] >> whoops _ _  
_ _[10:17] >> don’t hate me on our first day as soulmates? _(´｡• ω •｡`) ♡

_[10:31] << too late _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHHHHHH i know i promised spice but this is like? spice of the heart?
> 
> ANYWAY thank you so so so so much to everyone who has stuck around this long to see it through to the end!!! your kudos and subs and bookmarks and kind comments have seriously brought so much joy to my life, i can't begin to thank you enough! i'm so incredibly grateful for every person who has read my lil soulmate jig <3 
> 
> i have a sweet little epilogue ready to go that'll post in the next few days :) 
> 
> i originally intended to have part of this chapter from Kuroo's POV post-soulmate reveal, but it didn't feel right. i couldn't get the flow to work. i have it all written, so if you're interested in seeing that as a companion one shot or something, let me know! 
> 
> i've got lots of works planned (krtsk, asanoya) so if you're interested in updates, consider subscribing to me as a [user](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OedipusOctopus/pseuds/OedipusOctopus) or following me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/OedipusOctopus)!
> 
> stay safe, stay loud, stay ANGRY. [BLACK LIVES MATTER](https://blacklivesmatter.com/). [ARREST THE COPS WHO MURDERED BREONNA TAYLOR](https://www.standwithbre.com/). WEAR A FUCKING MASK.


	7. epilogue: i'm already too deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When I’m with you, I feel like I’m skinny dipping.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3

“When I’m with you, I feel like I’m skinny dipping.”

The sheets tangled around their intertwined legs rustle as Tsukishima moves himself to look up at Kuroo. The man has a sappy, disgusting smile spread across his face. He has that weirdly serene look in his eyes that tells Tsukishima there may or may not be tears incoming, depending on how he handles the situation. 

He’s never liked tears, so.

“What the fuck, Kuroo.”

“Don’t give me that glare, even if it looks cute on your face.” Kuroo wraps his arm around Tsukishima’s back, pulling him in closer. “I feel, like… totally free. Have you ever been skinny dipping?”

Tsukishima scoffs and twists his torso into a more comfortable position so his chest is pressed against Kuroo’s side. “No. I’m not an exhibitionist.”

“It’s the best feeling, I swear. We should go!”

“Right now?”

“Duh!”

Tsukishima cranes his neck to look at the bedside clock. “It’s 1 am.”

“Well…” Kuroo rolls the word around in his mouth. “If you wanna go in broad daylight, that’s fine by me. Gives me a better view of your ass, anyway.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fuck off.”

“Suit yourself.”

Kuroo sighs, trailing his fingers over the ridges of Tuskishima’s spine as if counting his vertebrae. Even he has to admit it’s nice, lying here without the impending pressures of the outside world at the forefront of his mind. 

Just Tsukishima and Kuroo. 

Kei and Tetsurou. 

“I still mean it, though,” Kuroo says, voice as soft as the silken sheets all around them. “It’s so freeing.  And, like, being completely submerged in something with nothing reminding you of all the shitty parts of reality. That’s what it’s like, being with you.”

He says it like he hasn’t just read Tsukishima’s mind and discovered his stupid, sentimental thoughts. Heat rises to Tsukishima’s cheeks, blazing and full. He hopes the darkness of the room is enough to hide it.

A normal person, he knows, would coo and say something equally Hallmark-greeting-card in response. But he’s not  _ normal _ . He’s an ass. 

Somehow, though, Kuroo is still here, with him. 

So he does the best he can and punches Kuroo in the arm. Softly, at least. “Don’t be such a sap.”

“Aw, but then I couldn’t see that cute blush you think you can hide from me.”

The heat in his cheeks intensifies. “Idiot,” he says and punches him in the arm again, without restraint this time. 

But Kuroo doesn’t so much as grimace. His smile grows into a grin, sly and self-satisfied, just like the first time they met. But so, so different. “You act all tough, but you love it.”

“Yeah,” Tsukishima breathes out. “Maybe.”

Just maybe he does love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIN!
> 
> if you're interested in seeing more works from me, follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/OedipusOctopus) or [subscribe to me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OedipusOctopus/pseuds/OedipusOctopus) as a user on ao3!
> 
> stay safe, stay loud, stay ANGRY. [BLACK LIVES MATTER](https://blacklivesmatter.com/). [ARREST THE COPS WHO MURDERED BREONNA TAYLOR.](https://www.standwithbre.com/) WEAR A FUCKING MASK.


	8. the gift that keeps giving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> looking to the future, together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE and HAPPY KRTSK DAY 
> 
> i know it's late to post smth but i just finished up this lil blurb i started before i posted the last chap!!! (and it's still nov 1 in my timezone so!!!!)
> 
> chapter title from [skinny dipping](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vqx3f18MuFc&ab_channel=HopelessRecords) by [stand atlantic](https://open.spotify.com/artist/1W2Fv4YUnjC8hx2qQd6fGh?si=nAOtSMntSwOP1gxdaAuGpA) <3

He doesn’t know exactly how long it’s been. 

At least, he _wouldn’t,_ but Kuroo has conveniently, over-enthusiastically marked up the calendar on the wall with monthly _soulmate-iversaries_ , the date boxes stickered to hell with shiny hearts and sparkly stars. 

Which is why he isn’t surprised when he comes home from practice with his new, still terribly awful green jersey still folded neatly in its plastic package at the top of his gym bag, to the smell of something baking and Kuroo shouting, “Welcome home, love of my life, soulmate of 52 months!”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes and kicks off his shoes. “How long are you going to keep track?” He drops his bag onto the floor at the foot of the couch on his way into the kitchen. “Besides, if the experts are to be believed, we’ve been soulmates since we were born. Fate, or whatever.”

The pout on Kuroo’s lips is pathetic. And maybe a little cute. 

“Let me have my fun,” Kuroo says petulantly while he continues stirring whatever sweet thing he’s mixing up. 

“What’s in the bowl?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, pretty boy?”

Tsukishima sighs, crossing his arms. “Is it strawberry shortcake again?”

“Don’t say it like you’re upset about it. I know it’s your favourite.”

“Hm.” Tsukishima sticks his thumb in the bowl, swiping away a small dollop of icing. “That doesn’t mean it’s the only thing I like. Keep up with this and I’ll think it’s the only thing you can make.”

“Hey!” Kuroo moves the bowl away, cradling the thing in the crook of his arm in some attempt to keep it away from Tsukishima. “You love my cooking. Or are all the _I miss your cooking when you’re in Tokyo_ texts I have screenshots of doctored?”

The corners of Tsukishima’s lips tick upward. “Maybe. I’ve seen the heavily photoshopped memes you and Bokuto drunkenly send each other.”

“How dare you insinuate we only send them while drunk. I’ll have you know that I start each of my days by sending my best bro the funniest thing I saw at 2 AM.”

“How touching,” Tsukishima says drily. He moves around the island in the kitchen to reach a short stack of envelopes sitting at the corner. “Anything important in the mail today?”

Kuroo’s mouth curls into a grin, blazing and bright. “There may or may not be some correspondence from a few museums.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Tsukishima stops in this tracks. “A few?” 

“Yupp.” Kuroo pops the ‘p’ at the end exaggeratedly as he turns back to the mixing bowl in his hands. “A few.”

Well. Tsukishima certainly wasn’t expecting to hear back from any of them yet, let alone multiple. Sure, his internships have been going well enough. His boss— a recent college grad, only in her second year as a curator— at the National Museum of Nature and Science seemed to enjoy having Tsukishima around last summer, and his current supervisor at the Sendai City Museum assured him repeatedly that the job is as good as his. 

Even still, he gets that cold, skin-crawling sensation along the tips of his fingers and the backs of his hands like all those years ago when his mom handed him the mailer emblazoned with the Tokyo University stamp in the top left corner.

They haven’t talked about it, not really. Things have been fine as they are. They have two apartments and Tsukishima honestly can’t remember whose name is on which lease— maybe they’re both on both— and exactly half of Tsukishima’s belongings are at one apartment or the other. Some weekends, Kuroo is in Sendai and Tsukishima in Tokyo for an exam. Some weeks, the bed feels too empty beside him. Other days, Tsukishima’s dreams are as warm as the arm slung over his waist, as comforting as the scent of the sharp cologne Tsukishima bought him for his birthday last year— or maybe it was the year before. 

But with Tsukishima’s graduation around the corner, only two semesters later than he originally painstakingly planned over dozens of emails with his academic advisor, they were at a turning point. His contract with the Frogs is coming to a close. A point of renewal, probably, according to his coach, his captain, Kuroo. 

The Adlers have tryouts in three weeks, and Tsukishima might land a job in Tokyo. 

He and Kuroo might finally be together— everyday, in the same apartment, instead of passing each other at train platforms and communicating via ink-smeared sticky notes and misspelled late night texts. 

(Tadashi asked him _Is it really so bad, the current situation?_ and Tsukishima said _No, of course not_ because the niggling feeling of codependency that’s been growing like a fungus in the back of his mind isn’t like him, isn’t fair to Kuroo, isn’t something that deserves to overshadow their current happiness.)

Lifting the stack of envelopes from the countertop, Tsukishima lets out a breath (that isn’t stuttery, that doesn’t get stuck in the thickness forming in the back of his throat). 

Sure enough, the logo of the Sendai City Museum is staring him in the face, bold and bright. Carefully, slowly, Tsukishima slides his thumbnail under the flap, breaking the seal. From the corner of his eye, he sees Kuroo stop his process of scooping icing into a piping bag to watch him as he slips the tri-folded paper from its confines. 

_We at the Sendai City Museum are pleased to offer you the position of associate curator…_

He takes in a sharp breath, not realizing he’d been holding sticky-sweet scented air in his lungs. 

“You got it, yeah?”

It’s all Tsukishima can do to nod numbly. 

“I knew you would, Tsukki! C’mon, open the next!” 

The official stamp of the National Museum in Tokyo taunts him next. 

The only thing between him and Kuroo getting to move in together, getting to be real partners all the time instead of weekly or bi-weekly or monthly or every few days or whenever is convenient for them, is a couple layers of paper and some adhesive.

(That, and the maybe hundreds of applicants in the same job pool as him.)

A warm weight settles on his shoulder, startling him from his quickly spiraling thoughts. 

“Hey.” Kuroo’s voice is barely above a whisper, a breath ghosting over the shell of Tsukishima’s ear. Kuroo’s fingers are warm as they brush over the side of Tsukishima’s neck as he tucks a curled lock of blonde behind his ear. “Whatever happens, it’s fine, yeah? If you don’t get it, you’ll stay here in Sendai and visit me when you can. And I’ll do the same from Tokyo. Just like it has been.”

_Just like it has been._

“Tsukki?”

_Like it has been._

“Hey, Kei.” Kuroo trails a hand down the nape of Tsukishima’s neck, pressing the pads of his fingers firmly into the meat of Tsukishima’s shoulders. “Are you still with me, Kei?”

Another shuddering breath escapes him. “Y-yeah. I’m— I’m here.”

The envelope in his hands feels too heavy, too rough against the skin of his palm, like it’s ready to slice him open. It’s stupid. This is stupid. It’s just a fucking letter— and things have been fine. They’ve been _good._ He’s been— he’s been happy. It’s dumb that it took a whole person— especially _this_ one that’s 6’2” if you don’t count the ridiculous bed head that Tsukishima can confirm is 100% natural, against all physical laws— for him to feel this way, but he does. 

He’s happy, really. 

So it’s completely stupid, so fucked up that this stupid letter holds so much weight in his stupid fucking brain. If things continue the way they are, it’s fine. 

It’s fine. 

But… They could be better. 

Living together full time would be _better._

“I don’t—” The words get mangled in his throat, garbled as they had to push through the knot in his vocal chords. Clearing his throat, Tsukishima leans into Kuroo’s touch, soothing against the plane of his back. “I want to get it. I want to move to Tokyo.”

_I want to be_ with _you._

Tsukishima feels Kuroo’s lips press into his temple. “I know, Kei. I know. We won’t know until you open it, though.” His lips curl upward against Tsukishima’s skin. “And believe it or not, glaring lasers at it won’t make the glue magically melt.”

Elbowing Kuroo in the stomach, Tsukishima scoffs. “I know that, I’m not stupid.”

Kuroo chuckles and presses another soft kiss into Tsukishima’s hairline. “Go on.”

“Okay.” Tsukishima inhales deeply, taking the moment to feel the air rush into his lungs like his therapist said he needs to— to be present, or something. 

He takes his lower lip between his teeth and runs his thumb along the adhesive keeping the letter closed. 

_The staff at the Tokyo National Museum of Nature and Science are pleased to offer you a position as an associate curator…_

Oh. 

Oh, _shit._

It’s— he’s— Tokyo—

“Well?”

“I’m—” Another quivering breath. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Kuroo grips Tsukishima’s shoulders, holding him out at arm’s length. His smile is a mile wide, beautiful and full and brilliant. It makes Tsukishima’s heart skip a beat. “Holy shit! Are you— Tokyo— will you—”

“I don’t— maybe—”

“Maybe?!” Kuroo’s grin falls a little. “Why just maybe?”

“Volleyball. I still— I want to keep playing. And my team is here in Sendai.”

This time, Kuroo’s smile falls entirely, dipping into a frown. “I thought you were going to try for the Adlers. In Tokyo.”

“I am.” Tsukishima wraps his hands around Kuroo’s wrists, pulling them away from him. “But I might not make the team because—”

“Tsukishima Kei, I swear if you say you’re not good enough I’m going to punch you.”

Tsukishima frowns, his face a mirror of Kuroo’s. “It’s a Division 1 team, Kuroo—”

“And the Frogs are about to be Division 1, too! They’re about to move up while _you’ve_ been on the team.”

“It’s not just me—”

“Of course not. But the team has never been Division 1, and they’re about to be while you’re part of the team. It’s not a coincidence, Kei.”

“You have to say I’m good enough so you don’t hurt your stupid pride about teaching me ‘everything—’”

“This isn’t about me! It’s about us!” As if he didn't mean to say what he said, Kuroo’s eyes widen dramatically. “I— I mean, it’s about you. _You_ doing what’s right for you.”

Tsukishima swallows thickly. “It’s about us? What about us?”

“I—” Sighing, Kuroo shakes his head. “I misspoke. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

His eyes narrow. “You never say something you don’t mean. What about us, Tetsurou?”

For a moment, Kuroo doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, and neither does Tsukishima. From the look on his face, it seems like Kuroo is warring with himself over something. Tsukishima has seen the look before— the furrowed brows, the lip biting, the fingers curled into his palms, the tension visible along the long line of his spine. 

The one time Tsukishima pushed him while he was like this ended with a missed monthly soulmate-iversary because that night ended so sour. 

His only option is to wait. 

So he does. 

The scent of the baking cake intensifies as they stand there, a foot apart from each other, his soulmark tingling against his clavicle like it does when there’s something weird going on with them. 

“Look, Kei,” Kuroo breaks the silence finally, taking a step toward Tsukishima, but doesn’t reach out. “I love you. So much. And I’ve been so happy. I love what we have.”

When Kuroo doesn’t elaborate, Tsukishima quirks a brow. “There’s a but coming.”

Kuroo doesn’t even make the obligatory dirty joke about _butts_ and _cumming_. Instead, he sighs again, finally extends his hand to entwine their fingers together. “But… I want us to be in the same place. All the time. When we’re apart, I go insane. At least, I feel insane. Kenma has threatened to stop being my friend at least a hundred times because I get so needy when you’re not around. Bokuto kicked me out from his apartment when I spent too much time there because I missed you so much that time you were really sick and I couldn’t see you for three weeks. _Bokuto_ said I was being clingy _._ ”

Oh. It’s— it’s the same for him, then. The things Tsukishima has been feeling— the clinginess, the neediness, the absence-driven insanity— Kuroo has, too. He wonders how long it’s been. 

“This is a really good opportunity. For you, of course, because it’s a great museum and because the Adlers are a great team that you’ll thrive with. But also because— I know it’s selfish— because it’s good for me. To have you around. With me. In Tokyo.”

He knows it. He does. He feels it. His soulmark thrums against his skin burning, buzzing. “But I still have to get on the team, first.”

Kuroo’s grin is back, splitting his face in two. “You’ll make it. I know you will.” He tugs Tsukishima closer, and Tsukishima lets him. “Please say you’ll move to Tokyo. Full time.”

It’s not— nothing is set in stone. He has to negotiate salary with the museum. He has to make it onto the team. He has to tell his parents and Takeru— god, there’s going to be so many tears. He has to move all his stuff— all their stuff— from this apartment. They should probably get a bigger place in Tokyo to fit all their shit. He wants a cat, maybe. 

But… 

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” 

He can feel Kuroo practically vibrating. “Yes, I’ll move to Tokyo.”

“Say you’ll move to Tokyo _with me.”_

“Oh my god, Kuroo, what does that matter?”

“Please!” Ah, Kuroo juts out his lower lip.

The extra quiver is _something._ “Fine. I’ll move to Tokyo _with me.”_

“That’s not—” Kuroo shoves Tuskishima’s shoulder. “You’re such a dick.”

“I never said I wasn’t.”

Kuroo playfully slaps his shoulder. “How did I fall in love with you, again?”

“I ask myself the same thing everyday.”

Laughing (yes, that terrible, awful hyena cackle), Kuroo presses a wet kiss to Tsukishima’s cheek. “Sap.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come scream at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/OedipusOctopus)!


End file.
